when the teacup shatters

by SolusMormont

Summary:

Will looked over just in time to see, well, himself.

The spectre of himself on the screen was frozen still, wearing a white prison outfit that Will was certain that he hadn’t worn before. What was more disturbing, was the transparent mask covering the lower half of his face, like a muzzle of sorts. His face was startlingly pale, bloodless lips quirked up in a dangerous smile. Will watched, enraptured, as his own dead eyes, devoid of emotion, stared back.

He heard Alana’s soft gasp, but it was distant and hazy.

A chyron at the bottom part of the screen declared the phrase ‘Embrace the Madness’.

That… definitely didn’t help his case. His insides went cold then hot all over as his eyes finally rested on the last line.

Emblazoned in a menacing tone of dark red, was the word ‘HANNIBAL’.

--- ---
OR: In which S2 Hannibal characters watch the show.

Chapter 1: Encounter

Summary:

Wide-eyed, Will glanced around the place. Toto, they were definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Will Graham didn’t trust his grasp of reality. Not currently, no.

Granted, he had good reason not to because, after all, he was currently awaiting trial from within the confines of a boxed cage in a mental institute all because his psychiatrist had manipulated and framed him for murder. 

Hannibal Lecter had certainly wound Will up spectacularly and watched him go spiralling down a destructive path, possibly just for shit and giggles, or a predator amusing itself with its latest plaything, that much Will suspected. The whole framing for the Copycat Killer thing must have been a real bonus, and Will had really walked straight into that one, hadn’t he?

In a twist that was typical of his life, but Will truly hadn’t seen coming, the person that he trusted had betrayed him in the deepest way possible. 

More fool on him, then. Never should have trusted psychiatrists. Particularly, Hannibal Lecter. He berated himself over it, over that weakness that he had foolishly exposed, and been exploited in turn. He was still, overwhelmingly bitter, but that anger was justified in this case. 

The betrayal ran deep. 

It was like living through a nightmare, except that everything was all too real. It was all of his worst fears gift-wrapped and brought to life in a mocking caricature that was so warped and twisted to the extent that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know where one end began and the other ended.

The scales had fallen away from his eyes and finally, he saw.

His own words from long ago came back to haunt him. You see too much. You see too little. 

Will had looked straight into Hannibal’s eyes, drawn deep into the darkness similarly reflected, and yet missed the monster lurking there entirely. 

His fingers clenched tight against the rounded metal bars, wishing once more that he was anywhere else but here. But wishing was a fool’s errand. Nobody would help him now. The FBI had all but disowned him, Jack and Alana undoubtedly believed that he was capable of murdering Abigail all those people and if they still harboured any doubts, Will was certain that Lecter would soon remedy that fact.

(Will thought of a slow, seductive voice, dripping poison, pouring lies in the ears of everyone who would listen, like a sticky-sweet syrup. Will thought of Garett Jacob Hobbs once more, and longed to scream the words, “ See? SEE ?”)

He wasn’t blind. 

Not anymore.

He stood there, barely breathing, motionless, and watched the evening turn to night and the shadows grew and elongated. It became something else entirely, darker and monstrous, and so did he, sinking back into the headspace of a monster that he had once thought of as a friend. 

He needed to understand, so much so that desperation tasted thick and heavy as it coated the back of his throat. The promise of the peaceful stream tugged at him, but the pull of the abyss was stronger. 

He tried to justify it to himself; what better way to trap the monster than to understand it?

Will was a damn good fisherman, but to catch the fish, he had to craft the bait first. He closed his eyes, and let himself fall backwards into the viscous embrace of the dark antlered creature that haunted his every waking moment. 

It seemed barely a second after he closed his eyes, when the voices began to filter through. 

It was soft at first, before becoming gradually louder, like white static noise bursting inside his eardrums in rapid succession, one after another, except that it didn’t stop. He flinched, squeezed his eyes shut until the responding tears began to sting through the thin layer of his eyelids. 

He breathed, shakily. Inhale, exhale, but dared to do little else. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed that way, or even when he had fallen to a prone position on the ground, arms encircled tight around his knees as he attempted to bury out the world around him. He was aware of very little, save for the cold radiating out of his own body, smothering him, and that goddamned noise.

“Will?”

The voice was familiar. His eyes snapped open. “Alana?” He rasped, shakily. 

Bright light boldly assaulted his senses. Everything was blurry and distorted. Moving shapes and blobs of colour and air spun in front of him. It burned into his irises the perfect picture of artless surrealism. It set off within his head the clanging sensation of pots and pans, hammers grinding harshly against an anvil.

A warm weight tentatively settled on his shoulder. He suspected from the gentleness of it that it was Alana.

His vision sharpened, focused into the surroundings. 

Will stared. 

He was… definitely not in his cell anymore. The abrupt expansion of the vast room made him shake, tremors taking control of his hands and body, as the sensation of being freed, albeit however slightly, but not really, began to finally hit him. It threw him off balance. Unsteady. He barely dared to breathe.

Wide-eyed, he glanced around the place. Toto, they were definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Dark-panelled walls and an opulent interior greeted him. Obviously expensive-looking furniture was scattered all over, and god, was that a table over there filled with food? He scoffed. It was probably poisoned. There were a lot of seats, though. Slightly curious, he thought it odd, but hesitated only for the barest of seconds before continuing his purview of the surroundings.

It was obviously a living room of sorts, although surprisingly spacious. At one corner, was a thin, dark slab built into the wall, which Will presumed was some sort of screen. And, of fucking course, there was a set of antlers on both sides. His fingers clenched into a fist at his side.

It was suspiciously Hannibal-esque. 

A sudden thought occurred to him. Dread began to build up in the hollow of his gut, and he abruptly found himself grateful for the fact that he had not eaten recently. 

“Will.” Alana knelt next to him, pulling him back to reality. Will finally registered her presence there.

“Alana-“ Will was suddenly alert, at last realising that he was not alone here. A furtive glance thrown around confirmed his worst suspicions.

There were… a lot of people. He felt slightly nauseous, but pushed it down in favour of scanning his eyes over the crowd, picking out the individuals and frowning to himself.

Jack, Beverly, Price, Zeller, Chilton -

The blood in his veins froze to ice.

Hannibal Lecter stood behind them, shadowed gaze burning into Will’s own with a dark, glittering promise. The psychiatrist tilted his head, barely imperceptible, and threw a quick wink, before returning to his previously stony mask.

Will gaped. 

 

***

 

If asked, Will would recommend not being an alleged murderer in a room full of FBI agents.

There was the fear, or course, but mostly evasion or revulsion present. It was easy to pick out the way that Price studiously avoided his gaze or the way that Zeller had strategically positioned himself behind Jack. Will had a feeling that they had rather hoped to avoid him in the first place. 

In a way, Will understood. It still didn't mean that the sentiment was painless, though.

“Alana.” Jack said tersely, watching Alana next to him with a hawk-like gaze. “It’s not safe.” His hand drifted to his firearm holster. Will didn’t miss that motion; nobody did. It was empty though. Will would have been grateful for that small mercy at least, but the fact remained that they were all still locked up in the room with the goddamned Copycat Killer.

Will looked around, and exhaled. 

“It’s alright. I’m alright.” He told Alana. Conflict still warred across her face, so he gave a watery, wry smile, even if it was more for his benefit than anything else. “I promise.”

He had already been shot at point-blank range once, and had no desire to repeat that incident.

She looked at his face searchingly. Whatever it was she was looking for, Will hoped she found it. With one last reluctant squeeze, she stood to her feet and crossed over the invisible threshold separating Will from everyone else.

It left him in a distinctly uncomfortable position, sitting alone against a crowd of mostly hostile faces.

There was an awkward silence. 

“For god’s sake, Jack,” Will finally snapped, “Give me the handcuffs and I’ll go sit near the radiator.”

Without hesitation, Jack brought out the cuffs. “I’ll do it.”

“Fine.” Will did so, and held out his right hand. Jack locked it into place with a practiced ease. Up close, though, Will could see the slight tremble in the man’s hands as he carried out the motion. With a slightly apologetic grimace, Jack hesitantly met his gaze, before turning around. 

Will rested his head against the wall, glared back into the immeasurable gaze of his former psychiatrist, and awaited his fate.

Jack scanned the crowd of people in the room, and opened his mouth to say something but before he could, the screen that Will had previously observed burst to life with a crackle of static and colour. They all jumped, although some hid it better than others. Will also flinched at the abrupt interruption. 

Will looked over just in time to see, well, himself .

The spectre of himself on the screen was frozen still, wearing a white prison outfit that Will was certain that he hadn’t worn before. What was more disturbing, was the transparent mask covering the lower half of his face, like a muzzle of sorts. His face was startlingly pale, bloodless lips quirked up in a dangerous smile. Will watched, enraptured, as his own dead eyes, devoid of emotion, stared back.

He heard Alana’s soft gasp, but it was distant and hazy.

A chyron at the bottom part of the screen declared the phrase ‘ Embrace the Madness ’. 

That… definitely didn’t help his case.

His insides went cold then hot all over as his eyes finally rested on the last line. 

Emblazoned in a menacing tone of dark red, was the word ‘HANNIBAL’.

Notes:

Suggestions and ideas are welcome! Feel free to drop a comment or kudos down below!

Chapter 2: Marlow Home Invasion

Summary:

Beverly grinned. “This is seriously the weirdest movie night ever.”

The psychiatrist looked vaguely discomforted, with all the attention in the room abruptly focused on him. He wore a sufficiently stunned expression in his vacant gaze, but showed no other outward sign of nerves or fear. 

Zeller looked at the screen to Hannibal, and back again. “Huh,” He said, “I’ll bite. The doc’s the main character, then?”

“Can’t imagine why.” Hannibal replied, with a small, controlled shrug. “My life is rather tame, if I may say so. Nothing particularly interesting worth noting.”

Liar. Will scowled. 

Beverly waved her hand in the air. “Is anyone going to address the elephant in the room?” She asked, gesturing to the screen with that disturbing snapshot of Will still frozen on it.

“I’m all too aware of that.” Will muttered under his breath, shooting a concerned glance towards Alana and Jack, the former still staring at the screen with no small amount of horror, and the latter fluctuating between confusion and devastation.

Frederick still looked abundantly freaked out. “Oh my god, I’ve gone insane. I was back there, and then I’m here, and- did I just instantaneously teleport? Why am I even here? I don’t even know any of you that well. Will someone tell me WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON???”

“The crazy is catching.” Will said loftily, taking a small amount of pleasure in the way that Chilton’s face drained of colour even further. Suffice to say, Will was not feeling merciful, particularly not after the man had attempted to spend the last couple of weeks scrambling Will’s mind. 

Was it petty? 

Yes. It was. 

Still fun, though. 

(Payback’s a bitch, Frederick.)

“Will!” Jack exclaimed, warningly, no doubt having heard the exchange.

Will offered a humourless grin, feeling absolutely vindictive, before settling back against the radiator. He had a feeling that the rest would come to regret giving him the spot later; for now, he could simply hoard all the warmth in the room. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly cold - more neutral, if anything - but Will appreciated the heat anyway. The conditions back at his cell had been lacking, to say the least.

Bedelia Du Maurier watched the chaos unfold around here, and heaved a weary sigh. She spared one last glance at the screen, claimed the most distant seat, and morbidly thought to herself, that she wasn’t at all surprised to realise that Hannibal Lecter seemed to be in the centre of it all.

The world did appear to revolve around that man these days. 

 

***

From the corner of his eye, Will became aware of a dark shadow bounding towards him. 

He wondered if it was the stag again, there to haunt him once more in his full misery. He wondered what sorts of creatures would his mind concoct next. Sanity was a word that had long since disappeared from his vocabulary, and the hallucinations were particularly frequent, up to the point that it was a norm for him.

The shadow gave a bark, and came upon him in a flurry of wet licks and happy growls. 

“Winston!” Will exclaimed, a laugh startled out of his throat, as the dog bounced into view, materialising and enthusiastically greeting him by barrelling straight into him. With his free hand, Will rubbed the dog’s head and began to run his hands through the smooth fur. He buried his face into Winston’s warm body, feeling unexpectedly light-hearted, as he breathed in the familiar smell of home.

“Glad you’re here, buddy.” Will whispered into the dog’s ear, pressing kisses all over Winston’s furry head. The dog responded with a happy rumble.

Beverly stared at the sight for a while. “Yeah. Somehow, I don’t think that he's secretly a murderer.” She flopped down onto the nearby sofa. “So, what now?”

Jimmy picked up something, squinted at it, before holding it up in the dim light. “Hey, I think it’s a remote.” He stared. “There’s only two buttons. Pause or play. Huh. I have never before been so threatened by a tv remote.”

“Screen is already on.” Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Might as well start.”

Beverly grinned. “This is seriously the weirdest movie night ever.”

Jimmy’s finger hovered dramatically over the ‘play’ button. “Do it.” Zeller deadpanned, and Price acquiesced. In slow motion, he pressed it. “Boom. There’s no turning back now.”

Hannibal stared at the image of Will Graham on the screen, even as it began to slowly vanish. It was breathtakingly beautiful, in a way that he longed to recreate in real life. His fingers itched for pencil and charcoal to copy it down. He would have to capture the fragility and darkness in those eyes. Even now, as it faded, he could feel the weighted stare of it pierce his very soul.

He gave no visible reaction, even as a smile drew upon his features on the inside.

 

***

 

Police sirens wail in the background. Several officers are shown moving urgently in front of a house, and it is instantly clear that it is a crime scene. A pool of blood peeks out from behind a door, soaking the wooden floor in a deep red. There are arterial splashes on the wall, splayed out against a security keypad. The scene pulls back to show a team of coroners zipping up a man in a body bag.

Something about that whole set-up picked away at the back of Will’s mind. What started as a small, rippling hesitation began to grow, before crystallising into hardened certainty at the sight of the body being zipped up in the body bag. 

The Marlow case, he realised with a start. 

He recalled every detail of it, even if it felt like ages ago.  He’d lectured enough times about that particular case, not to mention actually been there while the scene was fresh and being processed. 

Will also knew that every crime scene that he had revisited, be it mentally or physically, put down roots in his mind and stayed there. It steeped his mind in thoughts of murder and blood splatters, hatred and love as motives forever entwined, and was often the subject of far too many nightmares later on. 

This particular case was no exception either. 

Jimmy perked up. “Ooh, so we’re in a cop procedural show or something. Cool beans!” He held up his fist.

Zeller obliged. 

Theresa Marlow lies crumpled on the floor nearby, eyes sightless and body unmoving as the blood seeps out from underneath her.

Jack straightened, having come to the same conclusion as well. Instinct had him glancing across the room and back to Graham. Their gazes met, and Will gave a shallow nod, affirming Jack’s suspicions. 

It was downright surreal to view the events of what had happened through the lens of the screen. It felt intrusive and uncomfortable, but at the same time, Jack also knew that it would be a good indicator to show how… accurate … this thing was. 

The view closes in on Will Graham. Reflective light flashes across his face, lighting up his eyes in smears of red and blue. Through the windows, the lights of the police vehicles continue to flash, but all sound is dulled, as if his ears are blocked. The ambient noise of Will’s circulatory system provides an organic hum. 

Seeing himself on screen was something of a shock, even as he had already known that it was a possibility. It was like watching through a stranger’s gaze. Distorted and strange and muffled, as if it were underwater. Will knew what would happen - he had been there after all - but even memory couldn’t account for every action carried out or the micro expressions that may have leaked out.

It was as if he were looking into a mirror - separated and split, and observing only as the echo of a spectator.

Will stares into the distance, unseeing.

And, just like that, Chilton was suddenly very much interested in what was going on.

Multiple people walk in front of him, momentarily displacing him from view. The scene pans out to show multiple officers working nearby. Nobody pays any attention to Will. 

Winston put a paw on Will’s leg, as if to say ‘ hey, I’m here’. It was probably the nicest thing that anyone had ever expressed to him, particularly with all the madness lately, and Will suddenly found himself kinda grateful for the break from reality, even if it turned out to be another psychotic hallucination from the Will Graham world of crazy.

Will takes a quiet breath, exhales, then closes his eyes. His heartbeat begins to thump loudly in the background. A beat. The pendulum swings in the darkness of Will Graham’s mind, keeping the rhythm in sync with the steady pounding of his heart.

Hannibal observed keenly, dark eyes glittering with peaked interest, as he watched Will interact with the crime scene. There was something vaguely breathtaking about it, that he yearned to experience in person. He had been lucky so far, but who was he to deny yet another chance to revisit the delicate appeals of Will’s unique ability?

His eyes are closed. He opens them. 

The pendulum is now outside of his head. It swings behind Will, wiping away the police officers inside of the house. Theresa Marlow’s dead body remains on the floor.

Will walks forward, his feet barely audible as he moves silently across the room. His heartbeat continues to pulse softly in the background.

The pendulum swings again, this time cleaning away all the blood, and then Theresa Marlow herself. 

That… was surprisingly quite accurate as to how Will might have described the process of decriminalising the crime scene in his head. Although, on-screen, it was a little slower and thoughtfully spaced out, as if to give them all a clear view, but in reality, the connection would have been quicker. 

It had always felt near-instantaneous to him - then again, time was distorted and blurry inside the confines of his mind, and the deliberate disconnection from reality meant that Will was mostly unaware of his surroundings. 

Will gazes forward in contemplation, before turning. The earlier pool of blood near the door disappears, reversing backwards, and when Will turns to look at the other side, the gush of arterial spray from the wall rewinds in slow motion as well.

He changes direction and abruptly begins to walk backwards, and out of the front door. It is open and the entrance shows signs of a violent forced entry. The next shot reveals that the door is now pristine and pre-forced entry. It is night-time. Will continues to retrace the killer’s footsteps backwards. He moves across the lawn, and past the officers and ambulance outside. Everything is frozen still, except for the flashing lights and the sirens in the background. 

The street is empty. He is alone in the neighbourhood.

Chilton opened his mouth.

“Do not.” Will interrupted, glaring daggers. “Try to psychoanalyse me from that.” 

Chilton slowly closed it without another word.

The pendulum stops swinging, snapping back into place at the same time that Will snaps into focus. His eyes close, and when he opens them again, it is no longer Will Graham who watches the house from across the street. 

The change was startling, almost brutal in its precision.

And kind of creepy, Zeller reflected.

Through the partially blinded windows, he can see the image of an alive Theresa and Thomas Marlow.

Will watches them for a long moment, taking in their domesticity, then begins to walk purposefully towards the house. He marches up to the front door and violently kicks it in. The home security alarm blares. Will pulls out a gun, and when Thomas Marlow rushes down the stairs, two steps at a time, moving to intercept the intruder, Will pulls the trigger. He fires two shots. 

For all intents and purposes, the sight was that of Will Graham holding the gun, pushing forward and heartlessly pulling the trigger. 

To Hannibal, it didn’t matter that it was merely a recreation of Will’s empathy. There was something strangely breathtaking about the glittering darkness clouding Will’s pupils on the screen - an almost tangible and terrible thing that he had the strongest desire to claim for his own and covet.

What a beautiful, lonely existence it was.

Thomas Marlow falls in slow motion, blood spraying outwards.

“I shoot Mr. Marlow twice, severing jugulars and carotids with near surgical precision.” Will Graham speaks for the first time, still holding up the firearm. His voice is steady, but a spasm of anger passes through his features. “He will die watching me take what is his away from him.”

He lowers the gun. “This is my design.” He says.

Jack startled, understanding finally dawning on him. He had heard Will say that phrase over the course of several crime scenes, quiet words spoken under his breath, but it was now only that was beginning to comprehend what the phrase fully meant to Will.

The sound of Theresa Marlow whimpering from behind distracts him, and when he turns, it is to see her frantically pushing the panic code into the home security keypad. She is crying, tears staining her pale face.

Alana grimaced and turned away, feeling her stomach clench at the raw anguish and terror on the woman’s face.

He raises the gun once more, and shoots her. The alarm continues to blare in the background as the keypad is peppered with blood. She falls backwards, dropping to the floor. 

Will’s hand falls to his side. He continues to speak. “I shoot Mrs Marlow expertly through the neck. This is not a fatal wound. The bullet misses every artery. She is paralysed before it leaves her body.”

His voice turns breathy and contemplative. “Which doesn’t mean she can’t feel pain. It just means she can’t do anything about it.”

“A cruel, cruel death.” Bedelia murmured softly, under her breath. The words tasted ashen in her mouth, bringing with it a host of unpleasant memories - ones that she'd rather see buried deep and preferably gone forever.

He looks at her with sorrow in his eyes.

“This is my design.” He says, quieter.

Theresa Marlow continues to stare sightlessly from her prone position on the floor. Accusingly.

“He felt guilt. Remorse.” Will felt his gut churn with those emotions that he named, a mimicry of that of the spectre that he was assuming the shape of. It was an intimate, mournful sensation. 

Will tears his haze away and towards the security keypad. He finishes punching in the button to turn off the security system, and the blaring home alarm is mercifully silenced. He reaches up and presses in two more buttons, still staring at Theresa’s body.

“This is DDX Security. Who am I speaking with?” The inquiry comes from the security panel.

Something occurs to Will, and he breaks character. The scene now changes to include the police officers working around him once more. 

“I need the Incident Report from the Home Security company.” He holds out a hand as one of the officers passes it to him. He opens it, and continues to peruse the contents of the file. 

“Woah.” Beverly said at last, hesitating slightly before asking, “So, that’s how you do it?”

“More or less.” Will admitted. It took a while for him to re-adjust to reality, thrown off-balance by the mental venture into the Marlow case.

To see it all laid out in front of him, as if the thought and synapses in his mind had been plucked out and splayed for anyone to see… it felt like a violation. He felt uncomfortably exposed and laid bare, as if he were a ball of  string that had been unravelled - displayed for people to bestow judgement upon.

“This was recorded as a false alarm. There was a false alarm…” He turns the page. “Last week.” 

There is a pause. 

“He tapped their phones.”

Will hands the file back.

The scene changes. A phone company repairman has climbed to the top of the telephone pole and is examining an open customer service box with a flashlight.

The repairman turns back. “Yeah. It’s been tapped.”

The scene changes back to the interior of the house, lingering over Theresa’s lifeless body.

“He recorded Mrs Marlow’s conversation with the security company.” Will says.

“This is DDX Security. Who am I speaking with?”

Will holds up a phone next to the keypad. He plays the pre-recorded message.

- “Theresa Marlow.”-

“Can you please confirm your password for security purposes?”

- “Tea kettle.”-

“Thank you, Mrs Marlow. We detected a front door alarm.”

- “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Is there anyone in the house with you at this time, Mrs Marlow?”

-”I’m just here with my husband.”-

“Do you require any further assistance?”

-”No. Thank you so much for calling.”-

Will continues to look sorrowfully at Theresa Marlow. “And this is where it gets truly horrifying for Mrs Marlow.” He says softly.

Jack exhaled slowly, and leaned backwards. What he saw reaffirmed his belief that the ability that Will possessed was a useful and powerful tool. He was just only beginning to realise what a terrifyingly potent one it was as well.

The background becomes blurred, brutally highlighting the still features of Theresa Marlow.

The scene fades, and it is revealed that Will Graham is in a classroom in the lecture hall of the FBI academy.

“Everyone has thought about killing someone, one way or another. Be it your own hand, or the hand of God."

Hannibal smiled to himself at that. It sounded like something that he himself would say.

It seemed that, no matter how hard Will tried to keep the darker pieces of himself in, there would always be traces of it leaking out. What he had just said to his students was proof of that - an unusual, brutal truth that cut through the swathes and soothed the doubt away, peeling back the weaker defences and exposing what was truly already there.

The words appear at the bottom of the screen - F.B.I. ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA.

“Now think about killing Mrs Marlow.” Will clicks on the remote in one hand, and a series of Marlow Home Crime Scene Pictures are projected on the screen behind Will.

“Why did she deserve this? Tell me your design.” Will surveys the room. “Tell me who you are.”

Will bit back a bitter laugh. How ironic and apt that the past would be used as a contrast to remind him even further how much he has changed.

Because Will didn’t know who he was anymore.

Notes:

Drop a comment to let me know what you think! Suggestions would be greatly appreciated, as well!

Chapter 3: Elise Nichols

Summary:

Jack wondered whether he regretted asking for Will’s help, in hindsight.

Jack Crawford walks down the corridor towards Will Graham’s lecture hall. His target is clear. The students stand to their feet and start to file out of the classroom.

“Mr Graham.” Jack says. 

Jack watched keenly. His stomach gave a lurch, squirming uncomfortably as he recalled the events of that particular day. He wondered if he had been too direct.

He also wondered whether he regretted asking for Will’s help, in hindsight.

(No. Yes .)

But then again, Jack knew that he would have done it again, in a heartbeat.

Will quickly puts on a pair of glasses as Jack approaches. 

Alana recognised it for what it was - a defense mechanism. 

“Special Agent Jack Crawford. I head the Behavioural Science Unit.” Jack continues.

“We’ve met.” Will replies, not glancing up.

That curt reply was so inherently Will, that Beverly found herself fighting back a fond smile. 

“Yes. We had a disagreement when we opened up the museum.”

“I disagreed with what you named it.”

Jack glances down, minding his feet, before returning his previous gaze. “The, uh, Evil Minds Research Museum?”

“It’s a little hammy, Jack.” Will says.

From the corner of his eye, Jack saw something like agreement cross his team’s faces. 

“You have got to be kidding me.” He muttered under his breath. Then, louder and more pointed, “Really? I thought that it was clever. Katz? Price? Zeller? Come on.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Beverly said wisely.

“Sorry, boss.” Jimmy said, “It kinda is.”

Zeller gave a thumbs-down, and then shrunk down in his seat at the look of utter betrayal on Jack’s face.

Jack looks up at the projected image of Marlow’s body on the board. “I see you’ve hitched your horse to a teaching post.” He leans forward, intently. “I also understand it’s also difficult for you to be social.”

“Understatement of the century.” Will muttered underneath his breath, with a scoff. “Look where ‘being sociable’ landed me.” 

“Well, I’m just talking at them. I’m not listening to them. It’s… It’s not social.”

“I see.” Jack says, although looks as if he really doesn’t. “May I?” He leans forward, gently pushing Will’s glasses up the bridge of his nose so he’s forced to make fleeting eye contact.

“Jack.” Alana said, warningly. It was clear to see that even on-screen Will looked uncomfortable.

“It already happened,” Jack answered testily.  “I can’t change it.” 

Beverly perked up. “He’s right.” She said, seriously. “Why don’t we all agree not to blame each other just in case, I don’t know, future us does something… uh, morally dubious.”

It was probably a sad fact of life, when all eyes immediately went to Will.

“I’m not the Copycat Killer.” He repeated sharply, “But Beverly is right.” His thoughts went to Hannibal. “Just… keep it open. Maybe we’ll learn something new about what has already happened as well.” 

“Where do you fall on the spectrum?” He asks.

Alana’s eyes widened, her teeth gritted together as if biting back a harsh retort. Jack looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

Will picks up the rhythm and syntax of Jack’s voice. “My horse is hitched to a post that is closer to Asperger’s and autistics than narcissists and sociopaths.”

It was easy to understand why Will so often thought about himself as a mirror. Hannibal recalled their countless sessions together, and the way that Will easily managed to pick up Hannibal’s own pattern and syntax of thoughts and speech. A remarkable gift.

Hence, a mirror - because Will tended to mimic its properties, absorbing in all the darkness and light in the room, and presenting back an almost flawless, tangible replication.  

Hannibal’s  lips quirked upwards. 

Narcissists and sociopaths, indeed. 

Jack is seeking confirmation. “But you can empathise with narcissists and sociopaths.” It’s not a question, and they both know it.

“I can empathise with anybody,” Will replies. “Less to do with personality disorder than an active imagination.”

They all remembered the way that Will had deconstructed the Marlow crime scene. 

Zeller gave a strangled laugh. “Yeah,” He said, “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

Jack leans in. “Can I borrow your imagination?”

“Back to the very start.” Will said softly. How strangely fitting that everything would begin once more with the Minnesota Shrike. As it were, he scarcely remembered a time before Garett Jacob Hobbs, or before Abigail.

Before Hannibal Lecter.

 

***  

 

“Eight girls abducted from eight different Minnesota campuses, all in the last eight months.” Jack’s voice rings out as he leads Will Graham across the campus. A group of trainees in matching sweats jogs by.

“I thought there were seven.”

Elise Nichols, Jack remembered with a pang. 

“There were.” Jack agrees. The meaning is painfully clear.

“When did you tag the eight?” Will asks.

“About three minutes before I walked into your lecture hall.”

“You’re calling them ‘abductions’ because you don’t have any bodies?”

“No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Nothing.”

“Then those girls weren’t taken from where you think they were taken.”

“No, they were not.” Jack agreed, with a pained frown.

“Then, where were they taken from?” Jack questions.

“I don’t know. Someplace else.” Will replies.

They enter the room. “All of them abducted on a Friday, so they wouldn’t have to be reported missing until Monday. Now, however he’s covering his tracks, he needs a weekend to do it.” Jack explains.

It felt strange to watch themselves work on a case and search desperately for a killer that they already knew the identity of by now. Garett Jacob Hobbs weighed heavily on almost everyone’s mind in that room, or at the very least, the ones that had actively worked on the case.

The spectre of Abigail Hobbs trailed narrowly behind, but no less devastating and painful than the memories invoked by that of the shadow cast by her father. 

Seven blue squares dot the map corresponding with graduation or casual pictures of the seven missing girls. Camera pulls back to reveal Jack Crawford’s office. Jack tacks an eight blue square to the map, and hands Will a picture of Elise Nichols. 

“Number eight?” 

“Elise Nichols.” Jack answers. “St. Cloud State on the Mississippi. Disappeared on a Friday. Was supposed to house sit for her parents over the weekend, feed the cat. She never made it home.”

But Will remembered. Elise had made it home, and fed the cat. She had made it home , and went to sleep.

Never woke up again.

His hands spasmed with the phantom sensation of the life draining out of her body as he- Hobbs had strangled her. 

“Yeah, one through seven are dead don’t you think?” Will says darkly. “He’s not keeping them around. He got himself a new one.”

Jack gives a sharp nod. “So we focus on Elise Nichols.”

Will looks up, taking in the smiling, hopeful faces next to the blue squares pinned on the map. “They’re all very Mall of America.” He pins up Nichol’s picture. “That’s a lot of wind-chafed skin.”

Abigail Hobb’s face stared back at Will from those photos - a cruel, twisted illusion that had Will’s insides churning. 

So heart-wrenchingly similar to the other girls, yet so different. 

“Same hair colour.” Jack agrees. “Same eye color. Roughly the same age. Same height, same weight. So, what is it about all these girls?”

“It’s not about all of these girls.” Will explains. “It’s just about one of them. He’s like Willy Wonka. Every girl he takes is a candy bar. Hidden amongst all those candy bars is the one, true intended victim which, if we follow through on our metaphor, is your golden ticket.”

“Abigail.” Alana said softly. Sorrow crept across her features for the teenager that she had failed to save. She held the blame to herself, the guilt still fresh and gnawing away at her bone. She blamed Jack, as well.

She would not sit back and let Will bear the responsibility alone.

“So, is he warming up for his golden ticket, or just reliving whatever it is he did to her?”

“He couldn’t let her go.” Will’s hands clenched by his side.

( Sound familiar? The insidious voice inside his head whispers.)

“Golden Ticket wouldn’t be the first taken, and she wouldn’t be the last. He would hide how special she was. I mean, I would. Wouldn’t you?”

Off that disturbing comment…

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Sounds like something a serial killer would say.” Zeller finally muttered under his breath.

Beverly faked a cough, and then did her best to pretend that she didn’t hear anything.

“I want you to get closer to this.” Jack decides.

Jack heaved a sigh. “Probably not my best idea.” He then winced, realising that he had inadvertently said it aloud.  He waited for the blow.

“No, it really wasn’t.” Alana agreed flatly.

And there it was. 

“No.” Will says flatly, already getting ready to leave. “You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown. They do the same thing I do.”

The doubts that Jack harboured about whether Will had indeed manipulated him to keep working the case didn’t disappear,  but it became muted and more… quiet. Seeing it through a fresh pair of eyes eased the suspicion. 

While comforted by this, Jack felt a twinge of guilt. 

He ruthlessly stamped it down. 

“That’s not exactly true, is it?” Jack’s stare is piercing. “You have a very specific way of thinking about things.”

Will scoffs. “Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way I think?”

Chilton, who had been surprisingly quiet until now, coughed.

Everybody ignored him. 

“You make jumps you can’t explain.”

“No, no.” Will dismisses. “The evidence explains.”

Jack’s gaze is sincere. “Then help me find some evidence.”

Will hesitates, glancing back at the map and studying the smiling faces there. He sighs. “That may require me to be sociable.”

“Mood.” Beverly nodded sagely. “Same, honestly.”

Jimmy Price bit back a smile.

 

***

 

Nichols’ home - night. A caption at the bottom of the screen reads Duluth, Minnesota. 

Jack and Will stand in the living room. Will is staring at a wall of pictures. 

“She could have gone off by herself.” Mr Nichols says, trying to rationalise his daughter’s disappearance. “She was a very interior young woman.” His voice shakes. “She didn’t like living in her dorm. I could see how the pressure of school might have gotten to her.”

Mrs Nichols says nothing, trembling. Jack is stoic.

Most of the previous light-heartedness from earlier disappeared quickly. 

They all knew what had happened to Elise Nichols 

“She likes trains.” Mr Nichols continues. “Maybe she just got on a train and…”

Mrs Nichols cuts him off. “She looks like the other girls.”

Jack nods. “Yes, she fits the profile.”

The expressions on the Nichols’ faces are heart-breaking. “Could Elise still be alive?” Mr Nichols asks.

Jack hesitates. “We simply have no way of knowing.”

A previously silent Will Graham abruptly cuts in. “How’s the cat?” He asks, still looking at the photos.

The abrupt non-sequitur dialogue fractured the sombre mood. 

It earned Will several odd looks from around the Will. He shrugged in return, and turned his attention back to the screen, uncaring and unwilling to take the time to explain. Remembering his own memories of this scene, he knew that the explanation would soon be given.

“What?” Mrs Nichols looks lost.

“How’s your cat?” Will asks again, turning to look at the couple for the first time. “Elise was supposed to feed it. Was the cat weird when you came home? It must’ve been hungry. It didn’t eat all weekend.”

Understanding dawned. 

“So, that’s why- that’s how you knew.” Beverly said. She leaned backwards. “Well, damn. Colour me impressed, Graham.”

The Nichols are unsure how to respond. Finally, Mr Nichols answers, “I didn’t notice.”

Will turns to look meaningfully at Jack.

“Would you give us a moment, please.” Jack excuses, and they both walk to the other corner of the room. 

“He took her from here.” Will says softly. Jack stares at him. “She got on a train, she came home, she fed the cat.” He explains. “And he took her.”

Jack inhales, and pulls out his phone to dial. “The Nichols house is a crime scene. I need ERT immediately.” He says into the phone. “ I want Zeller, Katz, and Jimmy Price. Yes, and a photographer.”

The team perked up, having heard their names being mentioned. Zeller sat up straighter. He found himself reluctantly intrigued, despite the fact that, well, everything that was currently happening at the moment should have been an impossibility .

As a rule, he had always maintained a healthy dose of scepticism. Everything happening right now challenged every fibre of his being.

It wasn’t that he downright refused to believe. 

It’s just that, god , it would have been much easier to chalk it up to a crazy dream or the result of far too many drinks. 

“Oh, right.” Beverly recalled sheepishly, cutting his spiralling line of thought. “The whole insect-thing.”

The Nichols are trying to wrap their minds around the quick flurry of abrupt action. Mrs Nichols puts her head in her hands. 

“Why is it now a crime scene?” Mr Nichols asks.

Jack pauses. Will jumps in. “Can I see your daughter’s room?” He asks, instead.

“Police were up there this morning.” Mr Nichols says.

He leads Will, who pulls on gloves as they approach. Will warily eyes the cat pawing at the door, eager to go inside.

“Animals have been known to sense death.” Hannibal, who had been surprisingly silent until now, offered. 

“Particularly cats.” Jimmy explained, after a pause. “Because of their heightened sense of smell. Cats rely a lot on behavioural and biological cues to allow them to react appropriately, so I guess they’re just really good at sensing it.” Then, more defensively, “What, I like cats!”

Will immediately stops Mr Nichols from reaching the door knob. “No. I’ll get that.” He said hurriedly. “Mr Nichols, please put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything.”

“We’ve been in and out of here all day.” He argues.

“You can hold the cat, if it's easier.” Will offers.

Winston stared at the screen balefully, a long mournful look on his face, before the canine took the opportunity to burrow deeper at Will’s side, a low whine escaping the dog. Will bit back a smile as he absently continued to run his hands through Winston’s fur.

Mr Nichols picks up the cat as instructed. Will wraps a gloved hand around the knob and opens the door. The light from the hallway streaks across the floor and up the wall as Will enters.

Elise Nichols lays still in her bed, dressed in pajamas as if she had just gone to sleep. The grey pallor of her skin and unbreathing chest is immediately evident to Will. 

Blinded by hope, Mr Nichols steps forward. “Elise,” He breathes.

Hope, Bedelia Du Maurier decided, was a fragile, pitiful thing. Easy to ignite, yet even easier still to snuff out - a gamble of the highest degree. 

She spared a glance at Hannibal. Sometimes, even knowing that it was calculated risk, didn’t necessarily stop one from pursuing that desired outcome anyway.

Will quickly raises a gloved hand, stopping Mr Nichols. “I need you to leave the room.” He says firmly.

Realising the worst, Mr Nichols abruptly drops the cat. Will steadies him, holding him up.

Alana closed her eyes, and spared a moment of sorrow for the poor man.

 

***

 

“You take your time.” Jack says quietly. His silhouette stands directly in front of Will. “When you’re ready to talk, you talk. If you don’t feel like it, don’t talk. We’ll be downstairs. You let me know when you’re ready for us to come in.”

It had been nice of Jack, at the beginning, to maintain that boundary. Unfortunately, life had an unfunny way of subverting even the best of intentions. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. 

Slippery slopes, and all that, Will reflected.  

He leaves the room. Will stands alone. He glances out the window and sees the figures of Mr and Mrs Nichols at the back of the ambulance, weeping. The yard is full of assembled police cars, and the reflective colour of the red and blue lights. 

Will Graham takes a breath, exhales. The pendulum swings in the darkness of Will Graham’s mind, keeping rhythm with his heart beat.  

It still felt distinctly uncomfortable for Will to watch himself on-screen. He wondered why the… camera? … seemed so insistent on showing him.  

Will stand over Elise Nichol’s still body. The pendulum erases all traces of death. She is now alive and breathing. 

Tears well in Will’s eyes, then… Will bears down on Elise’s chest with his knee, cracking ribs as he simultaneously squeezes her throat shut with his hands. It’s sudden and horrible and violent. She is immediately startled out of a deep sleep into pure terror. Elise struggles, her face swelling with pressure, capillaries in her skin and the whites of her eyes strain. Tears stream down her cheeks as she tries to scream but cannot.

The sudden violence took nearly everyone by surprise.

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction, confronted with the ugly truth. Knowing what Graham did at crime scenes to step into the metaphorical shoes of a killer and actively seeing it play out like a brutal, nauseating reel were two very different things entirely. 

At the corner of the room, Will's expression shuttered, and became closed off.

Will trembles, shaking, breathing heavily.

Will couldn't tear his gaze away from himself on the screen. He felt everything that Garret Jacob Hobbs had - guilt, sorrow and sadness. He couldn’t honour her. 

“You’re Will Graham.” Beverly’s voice suddenly cuts through.

“Sorry.” Beverly said, wincing. “Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s fine.” Will said tersely, waving off her apologies. “You didn’t know.”

Will is startled. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He says, struggling to pull himself back to reality. 

“You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity.” She continues, smiling. “Found antler velvet in two of the wounds.” Then, “You, ah, not real FBI?”

“I’m a special investigator.” Will replies.

Beverly looks at him, searching for something. “Never been an FBI agent?”

Will shakes his head slightly. “Strict screening procedures.”

“Detects instability. You unstable?” She looks way too cheerful.

The joke had not aged well. There was a slightly uncomfortable pause.

Will doesn’t know what to say. Jack Crawford hurries in. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“I found antler velvet in two of the wounds. Like she was gored.” Beverly argued. “I was looking for velvet in the other wounds but I was interrupted.” She stares straight at Will.

“Well, this is awkward.” Beverly mumbled under her breath. She shifted her position on the sofa, resting her back closer to the soft cushion. 

Brian Zeller is now standing next to Will. “Hold on, excuse me,” he says, “Deer and elk pin their  prey. They put all of their weight on the antlers and try to suffocate them. That’s how they would kill a fox or a coyote.”

“Don’t trust Bambi.” Jimmy adds, nodding along to the conversation on screen. “Those antlers? Not for show.”

Will very subtly retreats from the conversation.

“Elise Nichols was strangled and suffocated, her ribs were broken.” Jack says.

“Antler velvet is rich in nutrients. It actually promotes healing. He may have put it there on purpose.” Will suddenly speaks up.

Jack’s eyebrows draw together in a furrow. “You think he was trying to heal her?”

“He wanted to undo as much as he could, given that he already killed her.”

It was scary, Zeller reflected, how much Graham was spot on in his observations.

But the envy that had haunted him earlier was gone now. He could only bring himself to feel indifferent, at best, to the madness happening all around them. 

These days, serial killers were like cockroaches, crawling out of whichever miserable hidey-hole that they had been hiding in, only to go on a horrifying spree and then get caught soon after. It seemed that every time they caught one, two more appeared to take their place. 

“He put her back where he found her.” Jack argues.

“Whatever he did to the others, he couldn’t do it to her.” Will replied. 

Elise Nichol’s body fills the screen. Will stares at her. 

“Is this his golden ticket?” Jack asks.

Will’s jaw clenched. 

Will shakes his head. “No. This is an apology.” The word ‘apology’ catches in his throat and hangs in the air. Everyone in the room stares at him. Will takes a deep breath.

"Does anyone have any aspirin?” He asks abruptly. 

Notes:

Drop a comment to let me know what you think! Suggestions would be greatly appreciated, as well!

Chapter 4: Winston

Summary:

“One way,” Will echoed hollowly, “Or another."

Will is sitting in an airplane. He cracks open another Aspirin pack and swallows it. 

Alana wondered how many other signs she had missed. The thought was not a happy one. 

The scene changes to show Will behind the steering wheel, driving somewhere.  The words ‘Wolf Trap, Virginia’ appear at the bottom. He stares into the middle distance as he drives, hypnotised by the pavement unfurling ahead of him. The headlights reflect, and he catches sight of something in the distance. 

There’s a dog running at the side of the road.

Will remembered this. The memory brought a bittersweet expression to his face. 

The warmth that Winston radiated, still splayed out and shifting from where the dog had rested its head against Will’s knees was the only thing that kept the darker thoughts at bay. It was strange, and painful, seeing himself so content and free on screen. 

Will slows the car down. He rolls down the window, and sticks his head out. “Hello.”

Alana felt something inside of her soften at that. She had known how much he missed his dogs. 

It was the least she could do, looking after the dogs. 

She still held onto the hope that someday, somehow, he would be able to get out. 

The dog barely acknowledges him, and instead goes faster.

“Hey.” Will’s car is pulled to a stop. He stands outside on the road, in front of the wary dog. Will tries to coax the dog to him, but it runs off. Despite being absolutely exhausted, emotionally and physically, Will gets back in his car and continues to pursue the dog. 

Will is sitting on the boot of the car. He holds out a hand. The dog comes right up to him and takes the offered food. Will continues to feed it, with a gentle ‘hey’, his face already lightening.

“Oh god, oh my god.” Beverly whispered under her breath.  Despite her best efforts, she could feel the wall that she had put up in her mind after Graham got arrested crumbling. It was hard to believe that Will really was responsible for the things that he was accused of. “My god, ohhh, god. This is so adorable.”

Jimmy heard her. “I’m more of a cat person,” He said. “But, this ? This makes me feel things.” 

The scene changes to Will’s house. The dog stands patiently on the porch, as Will pours water over it, washing the stray. Will dries it with a towel and then, using a hair-dryer, finishes completely drying the dog. 

Will takes a drink from a glass. He looks behind him. The stray dog is sitting in a large cage. 

“Winston.” Will says, “This is everybody. Everybody, this is Winston.” 

Winston’s ears perked up at hearing his name being called. 

Will continued to rub absentmindedly at the fur on top of the dog’s head, giving him a gentle push back down. 

“That’s you, buddy.” He told the dog. And for the first time, a smile touched his lips.

The camera reveals five dogs staring at Winston. A dog whines, and another barks. “Tsst, tssst.” Will makes a warning noise, and the dog backs down. “That’s right.” 

Hannibal observed the scene playing out. It was an oddly tragic scene, given how things had turned out later on. 

He wasn’t exactly a dog-person - at most, he merely tolerated their canine presence - but during the time span of their acquaintance up to Will’s incarceration, he found that he had become somewhat endeared with Will’s pack. In return for their silence and affection, Hannibal repaid the creatures with several pounds of pig’s meat and the leftover cuts from his cooking. 

Will sits down on a chair. A dog runs up to him. 

The scene changes to show Will lying on his bed. The entire pack of dogs are nearby, huddled close together in the living room where Will’s bed is. Moonlight-cast branch shadows stretch along the walls and across the ceiling. 

Seeing the inside of Will’s house, outside of an ongoing investigation, was an entirely different experience. It felt peaceful, and seemingly untouched by human presence somehow, far from the busy chaos of city life and civilization. 

The suspicion and distrust that had saturated the atmosphere later on was gone, replaced by the quiet calm of solitude.

Will opens his eyes, and slowly turns his head to see. Elise Nichols lies there, wearing the same night clothes that Will had found her in, appearing exactly as she did in her own bed, but now she’s in his. Blood blooms across the white cloth. 

Judging by the sharp intakes of breath around him, if Will had to hazard a guess, he would say that they were… surprised. Taken aback by the violent tendencies of his own subconscious. 

Not Hannibal, though.

His psychiatrist simply tilted his head as he watched the proceedings. 

Then Will made a mistake. He hesitated for just a second too long.

Empty burgundy eyes snap up to meet Will’s own probing gaze. Will refused to back down, staring dizzily into the depths of the void there. The stirrings of discomfort itched away at the back of his mind. His nerves tensed, then bucked, trying to pull him off course. He didn’t let it. 

I know what you are, Will thought dimly, watching the muted light refract against Hannibal’s face.

I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are. 

Will reaches out to touch her, and she begins to rise into the air. The white blanket covering her slips away, falling out of reach, as more blood begins to spread across her clothes. 

Alana looked away, perhaps out of kindness or discomfort. Nightmares were something that nobody else should be privy to. Such an intimate look into Will Graham was a dangerous thing. The sharp reminder that she was not the only psychiatrist in the room at the moment was a conflicting emotion.

She trusted Hannibal not to overstep boundaries. 

She did not trust Chilton at all. 

Will jolts awake in his bed, soaking wet with perspiration. The sheets are rumpled. He gets up, and places a towel onto the bed, peeling off his clothes and throwing it to the ground, before wrapping the towel tightly around him. He closes his eyes, and attempts to go back to sleep. 

It was interesting, Hannibal thought, to see how the beginnings of the encephalitis had manifested itself. 

Idly, he wondered how long Will had been plagued with nightmares of a similar degree, particularly after examining the crime scenes. Had he walked into the darkness of his own mind, armed with nothing but his own gritty determination? 

Had Will ever been consciously aware of the fact that he kept bringing something back with him from those dark places?

 

***

 

Jack stands, looking at the map, his hand pressed flat against the surface.  He slams a fist against it several times, a look of frustration on his face.

Will’s face is underwater. A flurry of bubbles fill the screen, and then blood begins to diffuse in from the side, staining everything red. Will pulls his head back, out of the basin, to reveal that he is standing in the bathroom. Will pats his face dry with paper towels.

Jack’s face remained stoic, despite the fact that he knew exactly what would happen next. Sure enough-

“What are you doing in here?” Jack asks impatiently, as he enters. 

“I enjoy the smell of urinal cake.” Will replies blandly.

Hannibal bit back a smile at that. It brought him a certain sort of pleasure at seeing that particular brand of bluntness and sarcasm directed at someone else, instead of him, for once.

Will had become even more insufferable after his incarceration.

Hannibal couldn’t imagine why. 

“Me, too.” Jack dismisses. “We need to talk.”

An agent enters to use the facilities. “Use the ladies room!” Jack shouts, and the agent abruptly turns around and exits. 

By itself, the words would have been humorous. But taking into account the current situation that was playing out on screen, well….

Will eyes Jack, resigning himself to the realisation that he’s not getting by without conversation. 

Alana felt her face freeze into displeasure. Before, she could only suspect the lengths that Jack Crawford would go to achieve what he wanted.

But now, she could see for herself exactly how Jack had gone about convincing Will. 

Jack paces up and down, like a lion stalking its prey, intent deadly clear on his face. “You respect my judgement, Will?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. Because we will stand a better chance of catching this guy with you in the saddle.”

There was a distinctly uncomfortable silence. 

Beverly was somewhat taken aback by the aggressiveness that her boss was displaying. It was enough to make her feel uncomfortable for Will. 

“Yeah, I’m in the saddle.” Will replies. “Just, um, confused which direction I’m pointing. I don’t know this kind of psychopath. Never read about him. I don’t even know if he’s a psychopath. He’s not insensitive. He’s not shallow.”

Jack is determined. “You know something about him. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said, “This is an apology.” What is he apologizing for?”

“He couldn’t honour her. He feels bad.” Will is getting agitated.

Alana felt the stirrings of disbelieving anger rise up inside of her. She clenched her teeth, but didn’t say anything yet. She would have a talk with Jack privately later. It was getting increasingly harder to resist the growing impulse to do so now, damn the consequences of the rest of them listening in, but she somehow managed. 

Jack had promised her that he wouldn’t push.

What was going on in front of them looked an awful lot like pushing . 

“Feeling bad defeats the purpose of being a psychopath, doesn’t it?” Jack argues.

“Yes! It does.”

Jack’s voice increases in volume. “Then what kind of crazy is he?”

The words felt like a gunshot to Will, given his current situation. 

There is a silence. “He couldn’t show her he loved her.” Will breaks it, at last. “So he put her corpse back where he killed it. Whatever crazy that is.”

Jack looks horrified. “You think he loves these girls?”

Will sighs. “He loves one of them.” He explains, “And, yes, I think by association, he has some form of love for the others."

“There was no semen. There was no saliva. Elise Nichols died a virgin. She stayed that way."

The wrong assumption of love. Will felt his eyes darken.

Will’s voice raises higher. “That’s not how he’s loving them. He wouldn’t disrespect them that way. He doesn’t want these girls to suffer. He kills them quickly, and-” His voice goes soft snd hesitant. “To his thinking, with mercy.”

Jack hesitates, then nods. “A sensitive psychopath. Risked getting caught so he could tuck Elise Nichols back into bed.”

“He has to take the next girl soon. ‘Cause he knows, he’s gonna get caught. One way or the other.” Will finishes. 

“One way,” Will echoed hollowly, “Or another.”

The scene cuts to a small, enclosed work space in a sealed, clean room. Elise Nichols’ clothes are suspended from a hangar, over a table covered with white paper. Beverly Katz brushes the nightie with a metal spatula, working carefully. Something falls. 

Beverly sat up straighter. She remembered this.

Beverly pauses, and sets aside the tool. She holds it up to the light and studies the tiny curl of metal with bright eyes. “I got you.”

The scene cuts to machinery whirring. Curls of shaved metal collect in a pile.

“Woah. It really is like a television show.” Jimmy said, impressed. “With the whole transition thing.”

A car door shuts, and the camera reveals a construction site. Behind the profile of a worker, a girl gets out of the car. She is of the same hair color, eye color, weight and height as Elise Nichols and the seven young women before her. Abigail Hobbs’ face brightens, and she offers a big smile and a wave to the pipe threader.

Will’s gaze was fixed onto the screen. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, too overcome with a surge of grief and sorrow, seeing Abigail looking so happy and young at that moment. 

Far from the dangerous madness of Will’s own life. Still entrenched within the fatal, possessive grip of Garret Jacob Hobbs. 

A heartbreaking dichotomy. 

The gloved hand of the pipe threader waves back. 

The sight sent a wave of discomfort and unease through the room. 

The scene changes. The camera finds Jack Crawford, walking with Dr Alana Bloom, on the grounds of the FBI campus. 

“Graham likes you.” Jack says. “Doesn’t think you’ll run any mind games on him.” 

Alana’s and Jack’s eyes widened, realising at once what was going to be shown.

Jack looked more resigned after that, although Alana still maintained a nervous, worried posture. Mentally, she ran through the conversation in her head quickly, hoping against hope that she hadn’t said anything too awkward or revealing. 

“I don’t.” Alana replies. “I’m as honest as him as I’d be with a patient.”

Fair enough, Will supposed, wryly remembering his failed attempt at a start of a less than professional relationship.

“You’ve been observing him while you’ve been guest-lecturing here at the academy, yes?” 

“I’ve never been in a room alone with Will.” Alana confesses. 

Alana gave an apologetic wince towards Will’s direction, almost wilting at the truth pried out of her.

It was alright, though, Will thought. He was used to it. A part of him understood perfectly why Alana had been reluctant to do so. He buried the layers of hurt underneath this understanding, and hoped that his expression conveyed enough to ease Alana’s guilt.

“Why not?” Jack asks.

“Because I want to be his friend. And I am.”

“It seems a shame not to take advantage.” Jack continues. “Academically speaking.”

Jack kept his face carefully blank. Even to him, it sounded callous.

Over the span of the several months that they had worked together, Will had become something of a friend to him. Incarceration, notwithstanding. The words that he heard himself utter so carelessly on screen felt uncaring, in light of that. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Will, even as he felt the weight of being watched by the rest of the occupants. 

“You already asked me to do a study on Will Graham, Jack.” Alana replies firmly, “I said no. Anything scholarly on him would have to be published posthumously.”

A small bit of tension bled out of Will at those words. Something tight inside his chest unclenched for a fraction, and he felt the air rush through the passageways, easing up for the first time since this whole incident had begun. 

“So, you’ve never been alone with him because you have a professional curiosity about him.”

Alana takes a breath. “Normally, I wouldn’t even broach this, but what do you think one of Will’s strongest drives is?”

“Fear.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

The slippery, gritty sensation was back. Will hated being psychoanalysed, even unwittingly so. The conversation had not been meant for his ears, and he found that he much preferred the ignorant bliss of not knowing. 

“Will Graham deals with huge amounts of fear. It comes with his imagination.” Jack says.

“It’s the price of imagination.”

Fear. They were wrong though. It wasn’t the fear of the creatures in his mind that haunted him, but what he knew he had the capability to do. 

Will was afraid. 

Of himself. 

(Not anymore, the stag rasps into the ringing cavern of his mind. It exposes the lie for what it really is. Pride drips from every jagged syllable. Will shuts it out, but the door is still open a crack.

It will never come together. Never again.)

“Alana,” Jack says, “I wouldn’t put him out there if I didn’t think I could cover him.”

The bitter irony of that phrase was not lost on anyone in that room. 

Alana gives him a look. 

“Alright, if I didn’t think I could cover him eighty-percent.” Jack amended.

But Jack had not foreseen his wife’s illness. He had not taken into account that soon after, serial killers would begin appearing like flies, everywhere and anywhere all at once. 

The eighty-percent dropped into nothingness, in light of that.

“I wouldn’t put him out there.” Alana says, intently.

“He’s out there.” Jack argues, “I need him out there. Should he get too close, I need you to make sure he’s not out there alone.”

Frustration flashes across Alana’s face. “Promise me something, Jack.” She says. It’s not a question. “Don’t let him get too close.”

The foreshadowing was an almost tangible, terrible thing. 

“He won’t.” Jack promises. “Get too close.”

This too, Hannibal reflected, was a lie.

Jack would do anything to achieve the goals he wanted. Will would simply be another casualty of the war that Jack discarded, in a desperate search for his white whale. He would never know that the true danger lay closer to home. 

The thought brought a surge of amusement to Hannibal. He revelled in it, the heady sense of power that followed soon after.

Alana just looks at him, searching for something.

 

***

 

Beverly Katz and Brian Zeller hover over the examination table as Jimmy Price continues to pull open the body bag. Will stands in the background.

“Okay.” Jimmy says, “Tried her skin for prints. Of course, nothing. We did get a hand spread off her neck.”

“Reports say anything about nails?” Beverly questions.

“Fingernails were smudged when we took the scrapings.” Brian Zeller answers, “The scrapings were from her own palms when she scratched them. She never scratched him.”

The brutality of the memory of Will strangling Elise Nichols was still painfully fresh on everyone’s mind. For someone who only had a surface look at the victim, without the aid of forensic tell-tales, Will’s reconstruction of the murder was… scarily accurate to the truth.

“Piece of metal is all we got.” Beverly concludes.

Absently, Will adds, “We should be looking at plumbers, steamfitters, tool-workers…”

The rest of them look at him, awkwardly. Will doesn’t meet any of their gazes. 

Zeller recalled their first encounters with Graham, as faded and stilted as the memories were. He had not thought much of the guy, at first. Then, after, well- 

It was interesting, going through the same events, but this time through a different viewpoint. 

He takes a breath, and steeling himself, forces himself to look into the direction of the body bag. There is nothing there, no body, only darkness. 

Jimmy blinked, startled. 

In the middle of the black, hollow vacuum is Elise Nichols’ body. She stands upright, unmoving, skin a sickly pallor. Antlers sprout like branches from her wounds, and blood soaks her clothes. Her face is pulled backwards, revealing closed eyes, as if she were merely sleeping. 

They were more prepared for it this time, remembering the earlier incident at Wolf’s Trap, where Will had similarly hallucinated Elise Nichols. Still. It did not stop the sharp jump of the pulse, when faced abruptly with this particularly eerie vision. 

It was gravely unsettling.

Will snaps back to reality. As before, Zeller, Katz and Price continue their examination. 

“Other injuries were probably but not conclusively postmortem,” Zeller continues. “So, not gored.”

“Mounted on antlers.” Beverly echoed quietly to herself.

“She has lots of piercings that look like they were caused by deer antlers.” Beverly retorts. “I didn’t say the deer was responsible for putting them there.”

“She was mounted on them.” Will realises, out-loud. They all turn to stare at him. “Like hooks.” Will continues, gaze unseeing. “She may have been bled.”

Like an animal , Will remembered thinking at that time. Like prey. 

Meat. 

“Her liver was removed.” Zeller says, leaning over the body as he examines it. “See that?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“He took it out and then, yep, he put it back in.”

Jimmy frowns. “Why would he cut it out if he was just going to sew it back in again?”

A shadow crosses Will’s face as it goes slack with realisation. “There was something wrong with the meat.”

The epiphany crashed into Will sideways. He sees the muted darkness of dim lights and glistening red meats displayed proudly upon an elongated, obsidian dinner table. He sees the splashes of crimson sauce over it, melting, dripping through his shivering fingers.

For a fraction of a second, he is almost numb with the weight of knowing . Then the realisation crashes into him, like waves dashed against the crown of sharp rocks. 

Organ mutilations. Surgical trophies. 

The dinner parties . 

His fingers went slack.

Zeller looks up from the liver, shocked. “She has liver cancer.” He confirms.

“He’s, um…” Will’s voice cracks. “He’s eating them.” 

Hearing himself say the words on screen, reverberating with the sharp screech of agonising understanding in his mind, shattered something inside of Will. The latest betrayal in a long line of betrayals. One final blow.

“See? See?” He echoed mutely, brokenly, and the tears that he had locked away for so long began to escape and silently make its way down his pale face. 

 

***

 

To the strains of Goldberg Variations by Bach, the camera crawls across a dining table. A pomegranate glistens, blood-red, at the centrepiece. A knife and fork artfully cut a piece of meat, bringing it to a plate in a place setting at the dinner table set for one. The hands cut a piece of meat, skewering it with a fork before delicately applying a balance of garnishes with the knife. 

He takes a bite. 

The man’s face is shrouded in shadows, his features almost skeletal. He looks into the camera. 

Meet Hannibal Lecter. 

Will turned his head away, hiding the revelation from the everyone else in that room. He doubted that anyone would believe him either way. Nobody noticed, too busy being enraptured by the scenes that continued to play like a reel on the flat screen.

But that was the truth, wasn’t it?

Because nobody ever noticed.

(You know what they say about crying wolf . Or perhaps, it's because you walked straight into the hungry maw of the beast yourself.)

The wolf lied, and deceived and wore the skin of a sheep. 

Will wondered why a part of him had let it.

Notes:

Boom, surprise update!

This is probably to make up for the fact that I have exams coming up really soon, and might be offline for a few weeks. Apologies, in advance.

EDIT: 19/8/21 - I realised that Will hasn't realised that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper yet. Some of the earlier text has been modified slightly.

As usual, suggestions and ideas are always welcome! Feel free to drop a comment or kudos down below!

Chapter 5: Hannibal Lecter

Summary:

Realising that your trusted colleague was a literal cannibal, well...

Hannibal Lecter felt oddly flattered. He was pleased with his apparent introduction, of course, but worried about its implications. He was particularly appreciative of the leitmotif playing in the background, though.

His finely attuned senses was the only thing that alerted him to what was quietly happening behind - a small hitch of breath, followed thereafter by low, uneven gasps. The slight hint of bitterness and salt curled in the back of his nostrils. It was not hard to connect the dots.

Careful, so as not to attract the attention of the rest of the occupants in the room, Hannibal’s gaze travelled backwards before latching onto the subject of his current intrigue. 

For a second, Hannibal was nonplussed. A dark, heavy discomfort set itself upon the perch of his ribs, although he was equally quick to banish it. 

Then, almost as if sensing the weight of Hannibal’s assessing gaze, Will’s head jerked up and their gazes snapped into place. The pull was stronger this time, more tight than even Hannibal imagined it could be. Sorrow and anguish quickly melted into angry defiance, jaw clenching into a repressed snarl. But the yawning chasm of horror that Hannibal observed on Will’s face gave away much more than his former patient intended to.

And then, Hannibal knew that Will had finally understood just exactly what existed beneath the suit.

The sound of a grown man’s quiet sobbing. “Please..” The man sobs, his features obscured. He holds out a hand, pleadingly. 

Jack tensed at once. A small niggle of familiarity itched at the back of his mind at the voice.

Hannibal sits in an armchair, opposite his patient. He watches the off-screen sobbing man inscrutably for a while, studying him, before handing him the box of tissues that the man is reaching for. 

Jack relaxed, finally placing the voice to the memory. 

Hannibal’s psychiatric patient. The one that had been killed by Tobias Budge in Lecter’s office. The one that had been there in the office at the beginning, when Jack had gone to first meet the esteemed Dr Lecter back during the Minnesota Shrike case. 

“Thank you.” Franklyn wipes at his nose and eyes, still hiccuping. “I hate being this neurotic.”

“If you weren’t neurotic, Franklyn, you would be something much worse.” Hannibal replies. 

Alana raised an eyebrow at that. That was… an interesting response.

There was a small conflict that she struggled with for a few seconds. She worried about this unethical breach in doctor-patient confidentiality. The feeling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, however, seeing as the patient in this case was deceased. 

Still. It went against her every instinct, resulting in a small shiver of unease in her mind. 

Franklyn leans back, tears still flowing down his face. He drops the tissue on the glass surface of the table beside. A subtly annoyed, almost murderous, look crosses Hannibal’s face. 

The realisation crystallised sharply in Will's mind.

He was certain now, that Hannibal Lecter had killed his patient. Not Tobias Budge. 

Will remembered the way that Tobias preferred to kill, having almost been an intended victim himself at that time. Tobias was sloppy, and driven by emotion and bursts of adrenaline. Tobias had preferred to draw out the kill, to coax the blood to spill from skin. He’d delighted in the sense of feral instinct, and thought himself a connoisseur of the arts. The kill of the patient had been clean. Dispassionate. His death would have been abrupt. Unexpected. Franklyn properly hadn't registered his death when it happened. But by then, it would have been far too late.

No. That kind of sterility practically reeked of an expert killer. 

Like the Copycat, or the Chesapeake Ripper. Like Hannibal.  

Not a sloppy beginner like Tobias Budge. 

Will had been too distracted the first time around to properly see it. The way that the little facts had not quite added together. A crooked jigsaw puzzle. 

But not anymore. Now, his eyes were pried open to the truth and he could finally see what was in front of him.  

“Our brain is designed to experience anxiety in short bursts, not the prolonged duress your neuroses seem to enjoy.” Hannibal says, “It’s why you feel as though a lion were on the verge of devouring you.”

Franklyn starts to sob into the tissue again.

“Is this how therapy is supposed to work?” Zeller whispered to Price. “In that case, count me out.”

Beverly thought about it for a moment. “Maybe it’s just Dr Lecter’s style. I mean, personally, I’ve never been to therapy, so-”

“Franklyn.”

“Yep.”

“You have to convince yourself the lion is not in the room.” Hannibal leans forward. “When it is, I assure you, you will know.”

Bedelia arched an eyebrow. It would not take a genius to realise that Hannibal was referring to himself. It was an arrogant, although not entirely false truth. She suspected what lurked underneath her patient’s person suit. 

It would prove to be… informative , she decided after a beat, to observe how Hannibal acted outside of the barrier of their sessions. 

The door opens, to reveal Jack Crawford sitting patiently outside. He stands to his feet. 

“Dr Lecter.” Jack greets, holding out his hand. A confused Franklyn takes it. “I’m Special Agent-”

Alana’s jaw dropped. “Jack, really?”

A shared look of horrified glee crossed across the science team’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack grunted. “Laugh it up.” His withering glare quickly put an end to it. 

“I hate to be discourteous,” Hannibal cuts in, “But this is a private exit for my patients.”

Jack realises his mistake. “Oh, Dr Lecter. Sorry.” He says with a small chuckle. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his card. He holds it out. “I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford. FBI. May I come in?”

Franklyn’s eyes are wide.

Hannibal felt a shiver of distaste at that look. He recalled all too clearly the particular feeling of despair that Franklyn had inspired in him. 

He had not even been able to look at cheese for a few months after one such therapy session. 

Hannibal studies the credentials. “You may wait in the waiting room.” He turns, and adds dismissively, “Franklyn, I’ll see you next week.” 

Franklyn starts to leave.

Hannibal turns to address Jack. “Unless, of course, this is about him. “ Franklyn freezes in his tracks.

“I kinda want to wrap a blanket around Dr Lecter’s patient, and then put him in a plane far away from here.” Beverly said. “Too innocent for this world, I tell you.”

What Ms Katz most likely meant to say, Hannibal thought dryly, was straightjacket instead of blanket.

“We did wrap him,” Zeller replied, “Inside a black bag. In the morgue.” 

Beverly deflated. “Oh, yeah. The whole Tobias thing.”

“No.” Jack assures, “This is all about you.”

“If only.” Will muttered, under his breath. 

Franklyn gives a shallow nod, and walks off. They wait until he’s gone. At the sound of the front door opening, Hannibal holds out the door to his office. “Please, come in.” He says, and Jack steps into the doorway.

Alana turned to Hannibal. “How long did you make him wait?” She asked, curiously. 

“Half an hour.” Jack cut in, grumbling.  

Jack surveys Hannibal’s collection of books and artifacts, admiringly, as the doctor follows him in, and shuts the door behind. 

“So, may I ask how this is all about me?” 

“You may ask.” Jack replies, “But I may have to ask you a few questions first. You expecting another patient?”

“We’re all alone.” Hannibal replies.

Not necessarily a good thing, Jack , Will thought acerbically. 

“Oh, good.” Jack pauses, before asking, “No secretary?”

“She was pre-dispositioned to romantic whims. Followed her heart to the United Kingdom. Sad to see her go.”

“She was dead,” Will translated silently in his mind. “Her romantic advances prompted me to kill her. Then, I cooked her heart into another pretentious dish, which I ate for dinner.” 

Hannibal follows Jack closely as he walks around the room.

“Wow.” Jack says, lifting off a page to relieve meticulous drawings of the Parisian landscape. “Are these yours, Doctor?”

“That’s really good,” Jimmy said, impressed. “Like, insanely talented.”

A small smile twitched across Hannibal’s face. He said nothing, even if he delighted in the praise deep within. For that, the fraction of chance that Jimmy Price would be allowed to live crept up ever so slightly higher.

The other two… were pending review. 

“Among the first.” Hannibal indicates an immaculate rendering of a school. “My boarding school in Paris when I was a boy.”

“The amount of detail’s incredible.”

Alana picked up very quickly that Jack was trying to flatter Hannibal, in an attempt to get him to agree.

“I learned very early a scalpel cuts better points than a pencil sharpener.” Hannibal comments idly, picking up a scalpel and a pencil from nearby. He begins to sharpen the pencil menacingly, the shavings falling off the tip to reveal its sharpness. 

Will wanted to put his head in his hands and scream. 

That had been a literally blatant threat. And somehow, it had flown straight over Jack’s head.

“Now I understand why your drawings earned you an internship at John Hopkins.” 

Hannibal’s nostrils flair and his eyes dilate, as he exhales a very calm observation. “I’m beginning to suspect you were investigating me, Agent Crawford.” An eerie silence as if lightning were about to strike.

Alana suppressed a small smile. Hannibal abhorred rudeness of any sort. 

He would not have been pleased at Jack’s abrupt invasion into his office. 

“No, no.” Jack says, with a slight chuckle. “You were referred to me by Alana Bloom. In the psychology department at Georgetown.”

Hannibal’s demeanor changes ever so slightly. “Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients. Doctor Bloom would be the exception” He sets down the scalpel on his desk.

Will’s mouth hung slightly open at the sheer audacity. He understood immediately that Hannibal Lecter had been a hundred percent ready down to murdering Jack Crawford, if the man had not immediately assuaged his suspicions. 

“Yes, she would.” Jack agrees with a smile. “Yes, she would. Well, she told me that you mentored her during her residency at John Hopkins.”

“I learned as much from her as she did from me.”

Alana felt a warm smile spread across her face. Hannibal was a good friend, and an even better mentor. She would not have traded away any second of it.

“She also showed me your paper.” Jack continues. “Evolutionary… Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion?”

“Yes.”

Which was, Will reflected, a fancy title for an essay with the burning question of ‘ why am I lonely ’?

One might safely assume that the cannibalism and serial killing might be the cause of it.

“Very interesting. Very interesting. Even for a layman.” Jack gestures to himself.

“A layman?” 

“Yeah.”

“So many learned fellows going about in the halls of Behavioural Science at the FBI, and you consider yourself a layman?”

“Blatant flattery, Jack.” Alana remarked.

“Yeah, well, it worked.” Jack replied.

“I do when I’m in your company, Doctor.” Jack replies, then, “I need you to help me with a psychological profile.”

Will’s face shuttered into a scowl. It was not an entirely undeserved reaction.

 

***

 

Back at the FBI academy, Quantico.

“Tell me then, how many confessions?” Hannibal asks, studying the board.

“Twelve dozen,” Jack replies, “The last time I checked. None of them had any details. Until this morning. And then they all had details. Some genius in Duluth PD took a photograph of Elise Nichols’ body with his cell phone, shared it with his friends, then Freddie Lounds posted it on Tattlecrime.com.”

Zeller shifted uncomfortably, remembering his later actions during the Mushroom Man case. He prayed that the screen would not show his involvement. Shame and guilt twisted sharply in the pit of his gut.

“Tasteless.” Will says quietly, almost to himself.

Which in hindsight, Will realised, was the worst possible thing he could have said. 

He should take a page out of Chilton’s metaphorical book, and then write a literal book on ‘How to make good first impressions on the cannibal that was your friend, but who later decided to boil your brain and toss you in jail’. 

He even tossed in a little cannibal pun, just for the fun of it. 

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Hannibal asks.

“My thoughts are often not tasty.” 

“I’ll say.” Chilton muttered under his breath, apparently still sulking from being brushed off earlier. 

Hannibal’s interest is piqued. He takes a closer look at the map on the board, depicting the missing girls and their locations. “Nor mine.” He replies, “No effective barriers.”

“I build forts.” Will replies, and takes a drink from a mug.

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

Beverly snorted. “Well, he’s got you there.”

Hannibal takes a seat, and mimics Will’s actions, reaching out and taking a similar mug. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will unapologetically continues to avoid eye contact. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, “Oh, those whites are really white,” or, “He must have hepatitis,” or “Oh, is that a burst vein?”

With a sad pang, Jack recalled that particular set of events at his office. He had seen almost immediately, how Graham and Lecter had fallen into orbit around each other. He had never seen Will so talkative, nor Hannibal so intrigued. 

Well, at first, anyway.

Hannibal gives a small chuckle, the lines around his eyes crinkling with amusement. A realisation hits him abruptly, a beat later, and he falters.

Bedelia’s eyes widened, as the realisation hardened into certainty in her mind. She pinpointed the exact moment that Hannibal’s fort fractured for a split second. 

Will Graham had somehow done the impossible - he had coaxed out a genuine emotion from behind Hannibal’s mask. 

Envy rose up behind her ribs. Even after all the countless sessions with Hannibal, she had never been able to draw out so much as a sliver of truth; she was all too aware of the fact that everything he showed her was carefully tailored. She had only ever seen pieces of his person suit, but never the man or monster behind it.  

“So, yeah.” Will continues. “I try to avoid eyes whenever possible. Jack?"

“Yes?” Jack makes his way back to them, as Will lifts up a piece of paper.

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind.” Hannibal comments. “Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations. Appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

Alana winced. She knew that Will would have hated being psychoanalysed. 

Something hard shutters close in Will’s gaze. It turns stormy. “Whose profile are you working on?” He asks, all previous traces of relative light-heartedness gone. But he already knows the answer. 

Will turns to Jack. “Whose profile is he working on?” He asks, sharply.

“I’m sorry, Will.” Hannibal cuts in, smoothly. “Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

Will doesn’t appreciate the intrusion into his psyche. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

“Hulk reference.” Beverly nodded. “Nice.”

“Will…” Jack tries.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Will says, bitingly, “I have to go give a lecture. On psychoanalyzing.”

He gets to his feet and leaves the room without another word, leaving Hannibal and Jack Crawford alone in the office. 

Will recalled the cloying sense of anger and disgust that had overcome him at that moment, realising that Jack had ambushed him. 

It had felt like a betrayal at first, and then as he reluctantly warmed up to having Hannibal’s company, an unexpected anchor, and then back to betrayal and hurt despair at the realisation that Hannibal had merely used him. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t poke him like that, Doctor.” Jack says finally. “Perhaps a less direct approach.”

“What he has is pure empathy.” Hannibal explains. “He can assume your point of view. Or mine, and maybe some other points of view that scare him. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack. Perception’s a tool that’s pointed on both ends.”

Perception, Hannibal reflected, had wounded both Will and him. 

Jack nods, slowly, in agreement. 

Hannibal leans back, turning to study the board once again. “This cannibal you have him getting to know… I think I can help good Will see his face.”

 

***

 

Crows continue to caw as they peck on something outside of view. A stag's head stares hollowly into the distance. The camera pulls back to reveal a horrific tableau - Cassie Boyle’s body is mounted atop the antlers. 

“The crows perched, hungry and savage, like guests at a dinner table.” Will said, eyes glazed over and contemplative, as he intuitively sinks into the headspace of the killer that he now knew to be Hannibal. “The body lay like a slab. A dinner table. Pierced and stripped and ready for feasting.”

If anyone was looking closely, they would have seen Hannibal’s pupils dilate, with pure delight at the description. But no one was, so this too, like so many other tics, passed by unscathed. 

“Uh, Will.” Beverly called out, reluctantly, twisting around to look worriedly at him. “Maybe you can… reduce the whole cannibalism talk? I think Jimmy is turning a bit green.”

“I’m hungry.” Jimmy mumbled, looking queasy. “But also, not anymore.”

Zeller comes into view, waving his arms to chase away the crows. There are police and investigators milling around in the middle of a field. A caption at the bottom of the screen reads Hibbing, Minnesota.

“Thee most iconic tableau.” Zeller said, shaking his head. “It certainly… stands out.”

And then, he remembered that Will Graham was still technically under suspicion of creating said tableau, and promptly closed his jaw with an audible snap.

“The stag head was reported stolen last night, about a mile away from here.” Jack says.

“Just the head?” Will asks, staring into the distance where Cassie’s body is displayed.

Will’s face was still blank, even as he tried to picture Hannibal Lecter sneak around with a three-piece suit in the dead of night, a stag’s head tucked under one arm. It was an amusing thought - the Chesapeake Ripper resorting to petty thievery for the sake of murder aesthetics. 

“Minneapolis Homicide has already made a statement. They’re calling him the Minnesota Shrike.”

“Like the bird?”

The thought of Garret Jacob Hobbs quickly soured the taste at the back of Will’s throat. 

Jimmy Price glances up from where he’s examining the body with the rest of his team. “Shrike’s a perching bird.” He explains, standing to his feet. “Impales mice and lizards on thorny branches and barbed wire. Rips their organs right out of their bodies, puts them in a little birdy pantry, and eats them later.”

“Crude.” Bedelia murmured, but she supposed that it did get the point across.

“I can’t tell whether it’s sloppy or shrewd.” Jack says.

“He wanted her found this way.” Will says, his face tight. He starts to make his way closer. “It’s petulant. I almost feel like he’s mocking her. Or mocking us.”

“Both.” Will said quietly. “You wanted me to find Garret Jacob Hobbs. You wanted me to see his face. And killed two birds with one stone. One corpse.”

Jack leans closer. “Where did all his love go?”

“Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn’t paint this picture.” Will says quietly.

This earned Will another round of wary, assessing looks from the rest of the room. He gritted his teeth, biting back the words to proclaim his innocence, knowing full well that it would not make a difference either way. He resigned himself grimly to this.

“He took her lungs.” Zeller says, pointing. Even he sounds shaken. “I’m pretty sure she was alive when he cut them out.”

The scene abruptly changes to Hannibal Lecter in the kitchen. He’s standing over something, the view blocked by his back. He’s pressing something. The camera reveals a pair of lungs. Using a knife, Hannibal begins to cut into the organ, severing the fleshy pink tissue with mechanical ease.

The air was seemingly sucked out of the room. Jack’s mouth fell open a fraction, as a screech of terrible realisation shuddered through his nerves. Alana stared blankly, unable to register the sight in front of her. 

Beverly slowly closed her eyes, opened them again. Nope, the screen was still  playing out the sight of Lecter slicing through the pound of flesh. “Oh my god.” She said, hollowly. 

Beside her, Jimmy and Zeller were frozen stiff with shock.

Chilton’s scandalised, audible gasp was lost to the background, as Hannibal cut in smoothly, “An unfortunate coincidence, I assure you.” He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Pig’s lungs bear an awful lot of similarity to that of human ones.”

The screen continued to play out the events, not stopping for breath.

The scene abruptly changes back to Will, crouched over Cassie Boyle’s impaled body. “Our cannibal loves women.” Will continues, “He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to consume them. Keep some part of them inside. This girl’s killer thought that she was a pig .”

There was a horrible, fragmented pause. Then-

“Son of a bitch!” Jack’s voice came out loud and shrill. If it had been any other moment, this fact alone would have been funny. 

But the realisation that your trusted colleague was a literal cannibal turned out to be an extremely unfunny occasion. 

“You think this was a copycat?” Jack questions.

Will trembled with the shock of such a blatant exposure. He could not breath, could not even bear to think - 

His skin prickled sharply, as shivers wracked his hunched posture. He felt numb, and dissociated - immaterial - as if he were watching himself from a distance, hovering above like a displaced spirit as he observed himself crumple through the throes of a panic attack. 

The remaining doubts that he still harboured about Hannibal was quickly ripped away in a brutal, fluid motion. The confirmation hurt. Will finally had his proof, other than the tattered remains of his own memories and the instinct that festered in his gut. It should have been counted as a victory. But it felt like being wounded.

Will turns, from where he’s beginning to walk away. “The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it, and no interest in field kabuki. So, he has a house, or two, or a cabin, something with an antler room.”

The scene abruptly cuts back to the kitchen, where Hannibal Lecter pours wine over a sizzling pan.

Something tangible shifted into place. It was a minute change in posture, in the way that Hannibal’s face went tight and his eyes dark and cold. 

This wasn’t Hannibal Lecter, looking at them anymore. This was the Chesapeake Ripper, the soulless, empty-eyed shadow creature.

Back to Will Graham. “He has a daughter.” He says, slower. A realisation begins to dawn on him. 

“There you are.” The broken whisper that crawled out of Will’s throat cut deep into the terse, motionless silence. “I was wondering when you would finally show yourself.” His eyes were unseeing, and Beverly had the sudden, terrifying suspicion that he was not altogether there. 

“The same age as the other girls. Same hair colour, same eye colour, same height, same weight. She’s an only child.” His voice trembles slightly. “She’s leaving home. He can’t stand the thought of losing her. She’s his Golden Ticket.”

“A shadow. The stag.” Will’s voice tumbled into incomprehensible mumbling at this point. Sweat clung to the pale skin of his forehead, turning clammy skin into a shimmering canvas of remaining illness and stress. “My stag.”

Winston whined, and began to become restless as the canine sensed the tumultuous drop in Will’s mood.

“What about the Copycat?” Jack asks.

“Hannibal…” Zeller said in a weak voice, as the realisation finally crashed over him, “He’s the Copycat?”

Beverly’s mind whirred. The new evidence fit. 

There was one other person that appeared in every other crime scene, other than Graham. 

(Because Will never went anywhere without Hannibal.) 

This realisation sent a whole new wave of horror shuddering through the room. The fear - that gut-dropping sensation - leapt from body to body, swiftly changing vessels, and left shaken fissures in each left behind. Cracked pottery, brought low by a sculptor’s uncaring hands.

“You know, an intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is very hard to catch. There’s no traceable motive. There’ll be no patterns. He may never kill this way again.” He stops for one last parting shot. “Have Dr Lecter draw up a psychological profile. You seem very impressed with his opinion.”

Jack turns back to Cassie Boyle’s body, after a pause.

Bedelia exhaled, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of cold dread surge through her veins. She stared, fascinated, as the growing darkness on Hannibal’s face. The veil parted, the haze dissipated, and the emotionless, unmoving creature that lurked under it observed everyone in that room with cool detachment.

It would turn into a literal bloodbath, Bedelia knew.

Her mind began to rapidly flick through her options. Already, it leaned towards a passive role, hoping that she could use their relationship to spare her own life. 

It would not be a fair fight with Hannibal, of that she was certain. None of them stood a chance against her patient.  

The scene changes back to Hannibal Lecter, in his dining room. He takes a bite of the meat, pausing, before continuing to savour each bite. 

Alana turned pale, then white, as the full implication came crashing into her all at once. Nausea and bile forced its way out of the back of her throat, staining the inside of her mouth with acidic bitterness. She put her head between her knees, and began to heave.

Notes:

I was so stressed about posting this chapter... I think I must have revised it about five times now. Gah, the reactions were so hard to write-

It'd be great if you let me know what you think, or if there is anywhere I need to improve on! Feedback would be really great, thank you so much for reading!

As usual, drop a comment, or leave a kudos!

Chapter 6: The Minnesota Shrike

Summary:

Jack was on his feet in an instant. His hand instinctively went for the holster in his belt, only to remember that he was weaponless.

It didn’t stop him.

Hannibal moved with almost superhuman speed, vaulting over the edge of the sofa in a fluid motion. Balancing on his heels, there was a motionless pause where the air hung in balance on the edge of a knife and the weight of terrible understanding acting as a paralysis. 

Never had a man wearing a paisley tie looked so menacing before. 

The way that he stood was eerily reminiscent of a predator, sharp hollow eyes framed by streaks of hair that were somehow still perfectly in place. It was hard to amalgamate the version of Lecter that they all believed that they had known to the one standing in front of them. The shadows cast by the dim lights covered his face in an unreadable shroud. 

Jack was on his feet in an instant. His hand instinctively went for the holster in his belt, only to remember that he was weaponless. It didn’t stop him. In the next moment, he found himself charging forward with a low growl of anger and frantic desperation. 

He knew that if he failed… it would not be only him that paid the price. 

Behind him, Zeller dove for the remote, pressing the pause button hurriedly. The screen froze, accordingly, on the still image of Hannibal Lecter with a fork of human meat held delicately up to his mouth. But the action cost him, and he ended up sprawled half-way across Jimmy’s lap. 

Not that Zeller minded much. 

Jimmy’s face filled his vision, Beverly peering over as well. She raised an eyebrow at that, before a muffled crash from somewhere else had the two of them turning around to watch helplessly as the chaos unfolded around them.

“I’m copyrighting Hannibal the Cannibal!” Chilton yelled out, from where he was ducked behind the furniture.

Bedelia barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes, from where she was still sitting, seemingly unbothered by the madness around her. She was glad, now more than ever, that she had chosen the furthest seat to make her own. It certainly was useful. 

Her fingers twitched. Abruptly, she felt the itch to pour a drink for herself. 

Such a pity that the place seemed understocked…

 

***

 

Hannibal.

Hannibal the Cannibal.

Alana hadn’t been able to stop gagging for a good twenty minutes. In a panic, Beverly had managed to find a waste bucket, tucked away in one corner, and with the help of several suspiciously convenient toilet paper rolls and plastic bags, fashioned a sort of ‘vomit bag’, or as she dubbed it to be, and quickly handed it to Alana.

Turns out, Alana hadn’t needed to use it. 

Still. Beverly thought that it could still be useful. Because of the whole, you know, cannibalism thing… Even the mere thought sent a wave of nausea shuddering through her body. There was a certain sort of horrific twist in the fact that Will was innocent . Relatively innocent, anyway. 

Fuck.

How the hell was Hannibal the Cannibal even an actual thing in the first place?

 

***

 

Hannibal darted just out of reach of a blow to the abdomen as Jack threw himself at the psychiatrist. Something at the corner of Jack’s eye caught his attention, and an idea formed in his mind. He hurriedly grabbed the empty vase from nearby, and then began to throw items at Lecter in rapid succession.

Fortunately, there seemed to be an endless amount of priceless junk around him.

Unfortunately, every throw missed as Hannibal skipped out of range with a mocking ease. 

Jack continued to attempt to back Lecter into a corner, although he had a sinking feeling that Lecter was simply allowing it for the moment. The reason as to why became horrifyingly clear in the next instant.

Jack watched with sharp, almost detached fear as Hannibal’s gaze deliberately stroked across the room before landing on Will, who was in uncomfortably close proximity to the two of them.

Through his delirium, Will somehow realised this at the same time that Jack did. Graham arched an eyebrow, still clammy and shivering, and pointedly held out a handcuffed hand. The metal clinked deafeningly as he pulled against it.

Jack’s heart sank.

Hannibal took a step closer. Amusement danced across his empty features for the first time since the reveal.

He towered over Will. The threat was terrifyingly clear. 

“One more step, Jack.” Hannibal said, his accent thickening. He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Imagination did the rest of the work for him.

The haze dissipated slightly from Will’s face. A spasm of anger crossed his face. 

Winston growls, tail stiffening.

Hannibal’s gaze flitted down for a split-second. Will shot him the most murderous, annoyed look that he could muster, while channeling his inner Gideon and Chesapeake Ripper. 

There was a terse pause.

“Oh my god. Guys .” Chilton’s shrill voice pierced the silence. They all turned to look at him, with varying degrees of annoyance. 

Chilton was sitting cross-legged on the ground, rummaging through a cardboard box that had been previously near the television screen. “There’s so many of these .” He hissed, a touch hysterically, still waving the DVDs in the air. 

“Great, movies . So what?” Jack snaps. 

Chilton wordlessly turned the plastic case over so that they could get a clear view of the cover. The screenshot of Hannibal’s face stared back at all of them, in the midst of wiping his mouth with a cloth all the while staring darkly into the metaphorical camera. 

The lines around Hannibal’s eyes tightened.

“There’s like, over thirty of these.” Chilton continued, frantically. 

Jimmy looked equal-parts delighted and aghast. “It’s a series ?? We’re a series??” 

Will looked at Jack, and then at Hannibal, and back again. “Truce, then?” He suggested, somewhat acerbically. “I don’t feel like being a hostage for that long, and I’m pretty sure that nobody here wants to be stuck with a dead body for that long. Jack .”

Then he hesitated, and turned to Hannibal. “Please?” He asked, quietly, a niggle of suspicion entering his mind. 

The psychiatrist’s face was unreadable for a long moment. 

“I shall sit here.” Hannibal said, finally. “With Will .” The last part was directed towards Jack as a warning. 

Will waved Jack off somewhat stiltedly. “I’ll be fine.” He said tiredly, lying, through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry about me. You guys can continue. Hopefully, the faster we finish this thing, the faster we can leave.”

 

***

 

In front of them, Zeller presses the play button. 

The screen bursts back into life, the sounds filling up every static space of the room. The reel plays on and on.

Will sinks into the kinder madness around him. He drowned within a sea of drained weariness. The anger and vengeance that had spurred him on for so long feels meaningless, in the face of finally having achieved what he wanted. It was a curious feeling, satiation and unease wrapped up in a single package.

There were thoughts - half-formed in the back of his mind - a slow realisation of something gradual and unnamed, staggeringly overwhelming should it prove to be true.

Will didn’t dare examine those particular thoughts too closely. 

The caption reads Duluth, Minnesota. Will Graham stands in the shower. Behind him, the curtains part, and the background blurs and blends, to reveal a stag standing in the middle of a meadow.

Hannibal maintained a close proximity next to him. 

Will keeps his eyes glued to the screen, spurred on by stirrings of resentment. It discomforted him, to watch every scene of himself on that screen being shown, although for now, that wariness was eclipsed by all that had happened in the past few minutes. 

He still doubted that what was happening was real, but it was close enough to what felt like the truth, that he let it slide. For now.  

There’s the sound of knocking. Will shuffles in the darkness of the room, and opens the door. 

Hannibal Lecter stands outside. “Good morning, Will. May I come in?”

If Will had known the full implications of letting Hannibal in his life, he would have slammed that door in the psychiatrist’s face. Damn the consequences. 

Although then, he would have mostly likely ended up as Hannibal’s dinner later on. A vicious part of him contemplated with grim amusement how it might have gone wrong. 

Will was not a healthy specimen. His brain had been riddled with disease at that time, and his liver long since marinated in cheap scotch. 

Even in the afterlife, he thinks that he might have gotten a kick out of watching Hannibal try and eat that.

Will stares at him. His gaze flickers around Hannibal, looking for something or someone else. “Where’s Crawford?”

“Deposed in court.” Hannibal replies. “The adventure will be yours and mine today.” He glances into the darkness of the room. Then, meaningfully asks again, “May I come in?”

Will lets him in.

The metaphorical weight of his actions was not lost on Will either. It was a sobering thought.

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body.” Hannibal comments, peeling the lid off the stack of tupperware dishes. Freshly brewed coffee from the thermoflask is poured into two cups. “Which means I end up preparing most meals myself.”

Jack’s blank face spasmed with the stirrings of a pained glower. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists by his side, as he continued to keep a frantic, wary eye trained out Lecter and Will camped out at the corner of the room. 

A sharp nudge of guilt-stricken remorse had him sorely regretting his earlier actions.

“A little protein scramble to start the day.” Hannibal continues, pushing the container forward. “Some eggs, some sausage.”

Hannibal watches Will take a bite. 

Will’s unerring stare was like ice. “That was Cassie Boyle’s lungs, wasn’t it?” It was not a question. “You cut out her lungs, and fed them to me.”

“Yes.” Hannibal replied pointedly. “And you enjoyed it, as I recall.”

“It’s delicious, thank you.” Will says.

Alana’s face was still white and drained. She flinched at those words.

Will remained expressionless. He swallowed down the splashes of bile that threatened to crawl out of his throat. The worst thing is, the ‘protein scramble’ had tasted good. Hannibal was right. He had enjoyed it.

Too much of Hobbs had crept in. Too many fragments of Hannibal seeping into his head.

The barrier between Hannibal and him was far too thin. He felt more disturbed at being lied to and deceived, than unwittingly taking up the mantle of cannibalism. 

He wondered what it said about him, then.

“My pleasure.” Hannibal replies, hiding his amusement. “I would apologise for my analytical ambush, but I know I’ll soon be apologising again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly”

Will watched, with a slight frown set on his way. The way that the scene was framed was not well-versed in its subtlety. He saw himself on screen, practically radiant, haloed by a refracted stream of light from a window in the otherwise dark room. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, had his body shrouded in the shadows cast opposite.

The whole thing was stupidly metaphorical. 

“Just keep it professional.” Will tells him.

“Or we could socialise like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

“God forbid, indeed.” Will muttered under his breath. His teeth clenched, thinking back on how easily he had been fooled into believing that Hannibal had been his friend. Turns out, Will had been nothing but a patsy , taking the fall for something that he had been manipulated into.

And yet, he still had no doubt of the fact that Hannibal harboured some sort of misplaced affection for him, even after all this time. 

It made his situation all the more… dangerous for it. 

“I don’t find you that interesting.” Will says bluntly.

A disbelieving snort escaped Zeller’s throat, just a touch hysterically. He looked horrified for a moment at his slip, before clenching down hard.

Beverly awkwardly reached over and gave him a consoling pat on the back. “It’s okay.” She whispered, low enough that only the two of them could hear. “Happens to the best of us." The hints of a wry smile that didn't quite reach her eyes flashed across her face. "Nothing is ever normal when it comes to Graham."

Hannibal’s gaze flickers up to meet Will’s. “You will.” He promises. Changing the subject, he continues, “Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters.”

Jack’s face twists hard at that. A dark thunderstorm gathers at the back of his eyes, like the traitorous calm before all hell breaks loose.

Will places down his fork, hesitating for a moment, before deciding to take the plunge. “I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field.”

The bitter twist of irony echoed through the motionless room.

Hannibal puts down his utensils as well. He leans forward. “The devil is in the details. What didn’t your Copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?”

“Everything.” Will replies. “It’s like he had to show me a negative, so that I could see the positive, it… That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Will asked. “It was a gift. To help me see his face.” He didn’t need to specify who he was referring to. They all knew.

Hannibal’s thin, not-quite smile was an answer enough.

“The mathematics of human behaviour. All those ugly variables. Some bad math with this Shrike fellow, huh?” Hannibal continues. Will pours a drink from the flask.

“Are you reconstructing his fantasies? What kind of problems does he have?” Hannibal questions. 

“He has a few.” Will answers, taking a drink from the mug. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Jimmy mumbled, almost imperceptibly.

Almost with a wink, Hannibal asks, “You ever have any problems, Will?”

Will brings his hand to his heart in a falsely innocent gesture. “No.”

“Of course you don’t. You and I are just alike.” Hannibal leans closer as if imparting a secret. “Problem-free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about.”

Will takes a bite of his food. The camera zooms in on the ‘protein scramble’.

Jimmy looked on, faintly horrified. 

“I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little tea-cup. The finest china used for only special guests.”

The sheer accuracy of that statement grated away at Jack. He knew it to be a truth, but now that the words hung in the air over them, he began to wonder how accurate his perceptions of Will Graham really were. 

Will lets out a genuinely amused laugh. Hannibal smiles.

A slight flush of dark red adorned Jack’s face. It wounded his pride to be sharply refuted like that, and did nothing to ease the tight knot of suspicion and weary distrust that was becoming an increasingly constant companion in his gut. 

“How do you see me?” Will asks.

Something dark and heavy settles in Hannibal’s gaze. “The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.” He replies honestly.

Those words, once a comfort, were now a source of pained understanding for Will. He had been so relieved that someone had seen him as something other than a broken, wounded thing, that he had entirely bypassed the true meaning. 

Hannibal  wanted to make Will be like him . 

Will understood killers, because he recognised their need for connection. Will understood loneliness, because that’s exactly what he often felt. 

He felt the buffeting currents between Hannibal and him, the orbit pulling together and tearing apart. He felt Hannibal’s loneliness and bland contentment as if it were his own, because in a way, it was. He felt the powerful longing for an equal, for someone out there to accept all his fractures and jagged edges and shadows. 

But the temptation was swept away in that same current. Betrayal ran those waters red.

Will stares back, examining Hannibal’s gaze as it meets his own. Frown lines crease his face in taken-aback concern, even as his eyes remain bright and smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s a long pause of prolonged eye contact.

“Eyes are distracting.” Beverly quoted, with a raised eyebrow. 

A strange, ragged smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes fell over Will’s face. “You see too much.” He finished. “You see too little.”

The reminder quickly sombered the mood. 

Then, almost chidingly, as an afterthought, Hannibal adds, “Finish your breakfast.”

 

***

 

The car pulls up to a building.

“What are you smiling at?” Will asks.

Hannibal replies, “Peeking behind the curtain. I’m just curious how the FBI goes about its business when it’s not kicking in doors.”

Jack gritted his teeth at the double meaning in that. 

“Aren’t you lucky we’re not doing house-to-house interviews.” Will says. Then, “We found a little piece of metal in Elise Nichols’ clothes. A shred from a pipe threader.”

“There must be hundreds of construction sites all over Minnesota.”

“Certain kind of metal,” Will explains, “Certain kind of pipe, certain kind of pipe coatings. So, we’re checking all the constriction sites that use that kind of pipe.”

Beverly’s attention sharpened. She was genuinely curious how Graham had managed to find Garret Jacob Hobbs. Citing sheer dumb luck seemed somehow too trivial an explanation for how they had managed to find the Minnesota Shrike even when the FBI could not.

“What are we looking for?” Hannibal questions.

“At this stage, anything really. But mostly, anything peculiar.” Will opens the door and gets out of the car. 

Hannibal does the same.

“Two fellas from the FBI.” The secretary whispers into the phone. Behind her, Will and Hannibal are leafing through pages from a drawer.  

“She does know that you can hear her, right?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, that office is not very big and she is whispering loudly.”

“I don’t think she cared.” Will replied.

“They’re going through drawers now. Putting papers in file boxes. Yes, they are taking things. No. Well, they didn’t say… Yes, they can.” She turns to address Will and Hannibal, asking, “What did you say your names were?”

Just then, Will finds something in a file. “Garret Jacob Hobbs?”

“He’s one of our pipe threaders. Those are all the resignation letters. Plumbers’ Union requires them whenever members finish a job.” The secretary replies. Then, to the phone, she whispers, “I’ll call you back.”. She hurriedly places the phone down, and returns her attention to Will.

Despite herself, Bedelia found herself intrigued at the fast pace of events. She had not been present much for most of it, although she could fill in the blanks with the facts that she knew. 

From Hannibal, she felt that she had a sufficient enough profile to gauge Will Graham. Then again, her patient’s version of events has always been heavily edited or veiled within a mountain of whimsical manipulations of the truth. 

Either that, or it was, as more often than not, tainted by his own perceptions. 

“Does Mr Hobbs have a daughter?” Will asks.

“Might have.” She answers.

“Eighteen or nineteen,” Will continues, “Wind-chafed, plain but pretty. She’d have auburn hair, about this tall.”

Like poking and prodding at an infested wound, the sharp reminder of Abigail Hobbs throughout remained just as painful as the first time.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t keep company with these people.” 

“What is it about Garret Jacob Hobbs you find so peculiar?” Hannibal asks carefully.

“He left a phone number. No address.” Will replies. 

“And therefore, he has something to hide?”

“The others all left addresses.” Will says. “He also missed work for days at a time.” He turns to look at the secretary. “You have an address for Mr Hobbs?” 

“Huh.” Beverly said, “It really was sheer dumb luck.”

Will smiled thinly. “Not for Abigail.” He said shortly. He took no pleasure in the flashes of pain that it garnered from the occupants in the room, even as the recollection of his memories of this time continued to play behind his eyelids. 

Reminding him. Haunting him. 

 

***

 

Will is loading file boxes from the make-shift office building to the trunk of the rental car. Hannibal passes a box to the secretary, but several papers are scattered onto the ground. The secretary holds up the box.

Will's face was a stony mask. He remembered perfectly the events that had led up to the confrontation at the Hobbs residence. 

“I got it.” Will says, and leans down to pick the papers up.

Inside the office, Hannibal picks up a tissue from its box on the desk. He folds it, and then uses it to pick up the phone. 

Jack closed his eyes. Pulsating heat burned behind the back of his eyelids, as his thoughts flew at a frantic place. The knowledge tightened the noose around his neck.

Beside him, Alana had gone stiff and unmoving. Despair and horrified understanding and guilt flashed across her face - a nearly flawless replica of most of them in the room.

Except for Hannibal who just looked unrepentantly the same as always and Dr Du Maurier who was, as always, impossible to get a read on. 

The scene changes to show the Hobbs residence. Abigail is in the kitchen with her parents. The phone rings, and she goes to answer it.

“Hello?” She says into the receiver. There’s a pause, and then she turns to her father. “Just a second. Dad? It’s for you.”

The room was silent now, helpless to do anything else other than watch . 

“Who is it?” Garret Jacob Hobbs asks. 

“Caller i.d. said it was blocked.” Abigail hands her father the phone, and he presses it to his ear.

“Hello?”

The distinct accent trickling in through the receiver made one thing very clear to Will in that moment. “She knew.” He said dully. It was not a question.

“She did what she had to.” Hannibal replied, not unkindly. “To survive.”

Will turned away, feeling the telltale burn of tears sting the corner of his bruised eyes. “It didn’t matter, in the end. Because you still killed her.”

Something shadowed and unreadable flashed across Hannibal’s face at that. “I’m sorry that I could not protect her in this life.” He allowed.

Will turned away, sickened.

“Mr Garret Jacob Hobbs.” Hannibal’s distinct voice comes over the line.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t know me and I suspect we’ll never meet.” Hannibal says. “This is a courtesy call. Listen very carefully. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“They know.” Hannibal says simply, and cuts the call.

Notes:

I read and treasure every single comment. Thank you all so much!

And as usual, drop a comment, or leave a kudos!

Chapter 7: End of Aperitif

Summary:

Jack’s face was a stony mask, as immovable as granite.

The pendulum swings across the screen. Will Graham stares straight into the camera. His clothes are blood-stained. Something horrible has happened. All sound is dulled, except for an organic hum and the thumping beat of Will’s heart.

Will felt his heart pick up pace, beating faster inside the perch of his ribs. He felt his lips curl, tremble, in grief and pain, as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression.  

The pendulum continues to swing, erasing the scene. Will is suddenly sitting in the rental car, face blank, covered in blood. The camera swings around, and then all traces of blood are suddenly gone.

The crime scene has now been decriminalised.

If only time could reverse like that, Will thought dimly. 

If only real life was as clean and simple as that - not as a series of complex thought processes, but as a purer way of existence. 

Will is sitting in the car with Hannibal, in front of the Hobbs’ residence. Will pops an Aspirin behind the wheel of the rental car. He gets out of the vehicle. Hannibal watches him for a moment, before unbuckling his seatbelt. 

Will walks to the front door, trying his best not to look uncomfortable. Hannibal purposefully lags behind.

Looking at it from a fresh viewpoint, Will wondered how he had missed all the warning signs. It frightened him, just thinking about how blind he could be.  

The front door suddenly opens, and Louise Hobbs, bleeding and wheezing, is shoved down the porch steps in a heap, the door slamming shut behind her.

Bedelia watched, with a detached interest. 

Hannibal’s influence had always had the most devastating ways of creeping in and destroying something from the inside-out. Like a virus. A fevered nightmare, indistinguishable from reality. 

Will rushes to her, keeling next to Louise, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. She grasps haltingly for Will, streaking him with her blood. Hannibal watches as Will continues to gasp and choke for air in beat with the dying woman.  

Alana refused to look away, even as her fingers clenched at her side. Her throat felt hoarse and painful, in the same way that her head hurt, but she refused to be blind.

Even if she blocked out the sight, she could never fully tune out the uneven, rhythmic spasm of Will's gasps on screen, synced with the dying Louise Hobbs. It continued to pierce through the dull haze of her mind. 

Louise’s hand clutches at Will’s wrist as her body spasms, and then goes still. Will tries to slow the blood flowing from her neck, but it is too late. Will stumbles to his feet, pulling his gun out, and kicks in the front door.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs?” Will shouts, “FBI.”

Hannibal casually strolls up to the front door, sparing a dispassionate glance at the lifeless body of Louise Hobbs. 

Jack’s face was a stony mask, as immovable as granite.

Will makes it to the kitchen. He hears the sound of Abigail whimpering, and the sight that greets him is that of Garret Jacob Hobbs gripping his daughter. The wide-eyed girl has her weight against him, neck exposed. 

Will’s hand shakes as he tries to point the gun.

Garret Jacob Hobbs pulls the knife in a graceful arch against Abigail’s throat, as Will fires a shot. The Minnesota Shrike stumbles but doesn’t go down. He keeps slashing, and attempts to strike at his daughter again. Will fires the gun in rapid order, pulling the trigger over and over again.

“Nine shots.” Beverly breathed, a sudden thought occurring to her. “For all nine of Hobbs' victims.”

Jimmy's eyes widened as he squinted at the screen. “It even kinda looks like the antler wounds.”

With one last breath, Hobbs finally falls. Will immediately turns his attention to Abigail, and applies pressure to the wounds.

“No, no, no.” Will is shaking badly, breathing shallow and in bursts, as if syncing with Abigail. His hands are soaked with blood.

“See? See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs rasps, through a dying, jagged breath. 

Realisation crashed down on Jack. Those words… had been the exact same that Will had said to him at the Hobbs cabin. The same position, the same gunshot wound to the shoulder, the inflection- 

Hannibal had been there, both times. 

Will’s eyes are wide and glazed, as he stares straight into the eyes of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He’s beginning to shut down. 

Hannibal steps into the kitchen, his inscrutable expression suddenly registering genuine pity at what he sees. Garret Jacob Hobbs goes limp as he dies. 

Will tears his eyes away. “No, no, no.”

Abigail Hobbs continues to gasp for breath on the ground. 

Hannibal watches for a split second, before deciding. He leans down next to Abigail, and applies pressure on the wound. Will continues to shake and gasp for breath in tandem with Abigail, even as this slows down as Hannibal continues to work.

Rebirth, Will thought - a connection shared through blood.

He marvelled at the ease that Hannibal had simultaneously taken and saved a life. Abigail’s life. He felt bound - tangled up within strings, pierced with thorns. But not alone. The three of them would always be bound together, in one form or another. If not in life, then in memory.

He felt a tremble join the rest of his body. The spectral memory of Abigail that he had crafted in his mind still pulsated behind the cage of his ribs, fetal position. 

Hannibal looks at Will. An unreadable look crosses his face. 

 

***

 

Paramedics take Abigail away on a stretcher. Hannibal follows them into the ambulance. The doors shut behind him.

Will continues to stare blankly around him, still covered in blood.

Beverly recalled the incident. Had they really just… left Graham standing there? 

 

***

 

Back at the FBI Academy, the camera follows Jack Crawford down the corridor as he makes his way towards Will Graham’s lecture hall. Instead of Will, Alana’s voice can be heard.

“Biting in lesser assaults, like bar fights, child abuse.” Alana continues, “Emergency room personnel may be very helpful that way, if they have any memories of bad bites, no matter who was bitten…”

Alana went still. She remembered this. She remembered taking over for Will, while he had been temporarily indisposed. She remembered the righteous anger and resentment towards Jack over pushing Will back into the field. It was fainter, now - eclipsed by something much worse.

She trails off as she sees Jack standing there. 

“Where’s Graham?” Jack asks, as Alana makes her way towards him. 

Alana considers for a moment. “You said he wouldn’t get too close.” She says instead, anger clear in her voice. 

Will wouldn’t have gotten too close, Jack thought in despair, if Lecter had not been there.

She turns away and walks off. 

 

***

 

Will makes his way to Abigail’s room in the hospital. The hospital hallways are muted and dulled, as Will walks through. He enters to find Abigail, hooked up to various machines, still and unmoving. 

The camera reveals Hannibal Lecter sleeping in a chair next to her bed. He’s holding her hand, as if offering a tiny comfort. 

Will quietly sits in the empty chair on the other side of Abigail’s bed. 

Shadow versus light, Bedelia thought, stoically.

The moment of weakness that Hannibal shared was calculated. He wanted something. A forced connection to Will Graham. A link binding the two together. Then the understanding crept into her veins, calcified. No, not just something, she realised with faint fear.

Hannibal had wanted to create a family . 

The screen fades to black.

Notes:

And... that's a wrap on Aperitif.

As usual, drop a comment, or leave kudos! Thank you all so much!

Chapter 8: Decisions

Summary:

In hindsight, Jack thought, grimacing, perhaps badgering Graham into therapy had not been his best idea.

The screen faded to black. There was a whirring sound, mechanical in nature, before a small console nearby lit up with small, red lights. The disc slid out of the thin slit. Chilton picked it up. 

"Aperitif.” He read the title aloud, then turned to his audience.

“A drink consumed prior to a meal.” Hannibal explained. “Usually alcoholic in nature.”

”How apt.” Will commented dryly.

Beverly was next to Chilton in a flash, digging through the cardboard box of DVDs. “The next one is Amuse-Bouche.” She remarked. “There’s like, three seasons over here. Potage, Oeuf, and… woah. ‘Wrath of the Lamb’ sounds very ominous.”

“Follow it in order.” Jack ordered, after a beat.

“Oh, yeah.” Jimmy nodded. “This is a spoiler-free zone.”

The pause that followed was remarkably awkward - the silence filling in the blanks that no words ever could. 

 

***

 

Bullets clatter to the ground. The sound of a gun unloading gradually filters in. Camera reveals Will Graham firing it. He is standing in a stall in the shooting range. The gunshots are muffled. Will is focused on the target, but most of it fails to hit the centre mark. 

He starts to reach for something out of view, but then the target starts to move, gliding towards him. Even as Will watches, it becomes a dead-eyed Garret Jacob Hobbs at the end of the alley, moving closer and closer. 

“Getting a lot of horror movie vibes here.” Beverly said, under her breath, even as she hides a wince. She spared a spare glance towards Will, wondering whether this is when she had entered the shooting range, on behalf of Jack, to ask for help on the mushroom case.

Will fumbles for his pistol, reloading with shaking hands before he fires over and over again. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. The bullets rip through Hobbs like paper, leaving clean holes and no blood. Garret Jacob Hobbs doesn’t stop, continuing to advance even as Will continues to fire a barrage of bullets.

Will watched, stoically. It was hard to gather his thoughts. The blatant invasion into his mind grated , as much as it unnerved him.

A loud knocking interrupts him. Will wakes with a small start as Jack Crawford knocks on the window of the car that he’s presently using as a pillow. 

Jimmy started. “Oh my god.” He said, then shivered. “Jack-attack. I hate jump-scares. This is why I don’t watch horror movies.”

“Technically,” Zeller corrected, grimly. ‘This is literally our lives.”

“We’re here.” Jack tells him.

Will unbuckles the seatbelt, opens the car door and gets out. The caption on the bottom of the screen reads Chippewa National Forest, Minnesota. Will follows Jack towards a cabin. It’s the one that Garret Jacob Hobbs’ used.

Jack straightened. He remembered this particular memory - bringing Will to the Hobbs cabin. The eerie heaps of antlers, the dead deer remains everywhere… and Lounds.  

Will holds up a torch as he enters. The light reveals a deer carcass lying on top of a work table, as well as various animal heads scattered around. Will makes his way up a set of stairs. The light from his torch reveals a set of sharp antlers at the side of the screen. 

Alana watched silently. Garret Jacob Hobbs’ madness was betrayed the most here, strongest in the cabin, where it had saturated for who knows how long.  It made sense, in a horrific way, how his ‘hunting’ had been an euphemism for the Shrike killings. 

The camera turns to reveal that the walls and floor are lined with antlers. It’s grotesquely horrifying. Will stares, transfixed by the horrifying cage of bones around him. 

“A cradle of antlers.” Will said softly. The sight was still permanently seared behind his eyelids, from the time that he had first seen it.

Jack follows behind him. They take in the sight around them. 

“Could be a permanent installation in your Evil Minds museum.” Will says, still gazing around at the macabre setting.

Nearly all of their gazes flitted to Hannibal at this. 

“What we learn from Garret Jacob Hobbs will help us catch the next one like him.” Jack replies. “There’s still seven bodies unaccounted for.”

“He was eating them.” Will tells him.

“Had to be some parts he wasn’t eating.” Jack counters.

“Not necessarily.”

“Hairs for pillows.” Beverly says, echoing the direction of her thoughts. She remembered this - dismantling the residence and uncovering the various pieces of evidence. “Putty for plumbing.”

Jack considers the magnitude of the room, unnerved and coldly disturbed. “What if Hobbs wasn’t eating alone. It’s a lot of work. Disappearing these girls, butchering them, and then not leaving a shred of anything other than what’s in this room.”

Will felt the customary surge of protective anger, before it quickly subsided, swallowed away by the bitter knowledge. But it ultimately changed very little, because Will still would have whatever was necessary to protect Abigail. 

Abigail had hunted with her father. But she hadn’t wanted to. 

Will considers that for a moment. “Someone he hunted with?”

“Someone who is in a coma.” Jack replies. “Who also happened to be someone he hunted with.”

Will closes his eyes. The scene abruptly changes to Abigail Hobbs in the hospital, still unmoving and wired up to various machines.

He opens his eyes, back in the cabin, still digesting the possibility. “Abigail Hobbs is a suspect?”

Alana knew that Will had not been happy with Jack over this. Even as she had still held her own private doubts, she was uneasy with the way that Jack had treated Abigail. 

But it was far too late to do anything about it now.  

“We’ve been conducting house-to-house interviews at the Hobbs residence and his property also.

Will crouches next to a set of antlers. 

“Hobbs spent a lot of time here.” Jack explains. “Spent a lot of time with his daughter here. She would make the ideal bait, wouldn’t she?”

Hannibal silently agreed. He spared a thought for Abigail, still hidden in his other property near the sea, and wondered how she was faring. Thankfully, he had managed to excessively stock up the pantry and other essential supplies for her, just in case. 

He felt certain that she could take care of herself for a little while longer, as it seemed that he would be delayed.

“Hobbs killed alone.” Will says, after a beat. His tone is definitive, and Jack doesn’t press the issue, but most certainly takes note of it. 

Will catches sight of something. Carefully, he uses a gloved hand to pull something off the floor. A strand of long, red hair is revealed. “Someone else was here.” 

Zeller felt his stomach lurch. He clenched his jaw, and prayed, harder than he had ever before, that his involvement would not be shown. 

 

***

 

The scene cuts to a motel room. The bare back of Freddie Lounds is revealed, sitting naked at a weathered motel desk, working at her laptop. Her long red hair cascades over her shoulders, recently showered.

Will's gaze instinctively slid away from the screen, as he grimaced.

Various photographs of the antler room flash across her monitor, as they are downloaded from an expensive camera. On the monitor, Freddie drags a picture of the antler room under a banner reading ‘IN THE MINNESOTA SHRIKE’S NEST: EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS’.

Jack's lips tightened, barely imperceptibly.

She clicks upload.

 

***

 

Back in the FBI academy in Quantico, Will Graham pushes his glasses up. Steeling himself, he takes a breath and steps into the lecture hall, where he is greeted with a standing ovation from his students. 

Will felt the uncomfortable feeling slide over him - a repeat of how it had been the first time. He maintained a stoic mask, even as his skin crawled underneath. The memory seemed so very far away, he thought wistfully. 

“Thank you.” Will says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “Please stop that.”

The applause peters out. Will dims the lights around him. “This is how I caught Garret Jacob Hobbs. It’s his resignation letter.” The view swings around to show the projector is showing a picture of it on the board. 

The sensation of disorientation swung along with the view of the camera. It induced a slightly dizzied state in its audience. 

It showed exactly how Will had felt.

“Anybody see the clue?” Will asks.

A few hands go up into the air. Will ignores them.

“There isn’t one.” Will replies. He leans against the desk. “He wrote a letter, left his phone number.... no phone address. That’s it. Bad bookkeeping and dumb luck.” He clicks the remote, and the slide changes, this time to a picture of Garret Jacob Hobbs, dead, against the kitchen counter.

Bad bookkeeping and dumb luck indeed, Hannibal thought with a faint glint of amusement. His own influence had very little to do with Hobb's carelessness at getting caught.

Will turns and looks at the slide behind him. 

Abruptly, the scene changes to Will Graham staring brokenly, and then the sight of Abigail Hobbs on the floor, struggling to breathe as Will applies pressure to the wound.

Bedelia observed the scene silently. Try as best as she could, she couldn’t quite separate the faint association with that of her own memories. 

She recalled all too clearly the slick, wet layer of blood on her hands, the abyss that had yawned up in the pit of her gut as she had been marked irrevocably. She and Will Graham were similar, in that regard.

The scene cuts immediately back to the lecture hall at the FBI academy. Will quickly clicks the next slide. It now shows a picture of Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abigail, smiling at the camera, presumably after a hunting trip. 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead.” Will says. “The question now is how to stop those his story is going to inspire. He’s already got one admirer.”

A picture of the Cassie Boyle tableau is next.

The corner of Hannibal’s lips quirked up slightly.

Will turns to gaze at it. “A copycat.”

“Another mask.” Will corrected himself mentally, quietly.

***

 

The clouds pass by, sped up. Alana Bloom hurries down the corridor towards Will’s lecture hall. She enters just as the trainees file out of the classroom. Will continues to deliberately avoid eye-contact with the trainees, but immediately looks up at Alana’s arrival. 

“Hi.” Will says, putting the papers into his bag.

Alana felt a burst of familiar warmth in her chest, followed by a twinge of pain. She had missed Will’s company. 

“How are you, Will?” Alana asks, getting straight to the point.

“I have no idea.” Will confesses, then smiles.

Beverly felt herself soften, at witnessing one of Will’s rare, genuine smiles. The contrast to the Will that she had known was not a large margin - she had seen hints of it peek out in his dry, morbid humour that matched her own. 

But to see his emotions so freely out in the open was a startling change, regardless.

“Well, I didn’t want you to be ambushed-” Alana says.

“What, is this an ambush?” 

“Ambush is later.” Alana tells him. “Immediately later. Soon to now. When Jack arrives, consider yourself ambushed.”

Jack Crawford is standing behind her, having made his way into the hall while she had been talking. 

Zeller, Price and Beverly all collectively winced at that. Alana met Jack’s meaningful glance head-on, unflinching. 

Will bit back a smile. The incident was kinda funny, in hindsight.

“Here’s Jack.” Will says, just as Alana realises this.

Jack shoots Alana a look. “How’s class?” He asks, turning to Will.

“They applauded, it was inappropriate.” Will tells him, flatly.

Zeller raised an eyebrow at that.

“Review board would beg to differ. You’re up for a commendation and they okayed active return to the field.” Jack says.

Alana glances at Jack. “Question is… do you want to go back in the field?”

Will doesn’t say anything.

And that, Bedelia thought dryly, should have spoken volumes in itself. 

Jack turns to Alana. “I want him back in the field. And, I’ve told the Board I’m recommending a psych eval.”

Will glances at Alana, who apologises with a look. Understanding passes across his face. “Are we starting now?”

“The session won’t be with me.” Alana says quickly.

“Unfortunately.” Will said quietly. He wondered if it would have made a difference, in the long run. Perhaps.

Most likely.

“Hannibal Lecter’s a better fit.” Jack continues. “Your relationship is not personal. But if you are more comfortable with Dr Bloom-”

Bedelia raised an eyebrow at that. 'Personal' was not entirely far off the mark, where Hannibal's relationship with Will was concerned. 

“I’m not going to be comfortable with anybody inside my head.” Will replies.

“You’ve never killed anyone before, Will.” Alana cautions. “It’s a deadly force encounter. It’s a lot to digest.”

“I used to work homicide.” Will replies, and starts to leave.

“The reason you ‘used to’ work homicide is because you didn’t have the stomach for pulling the trigger. You just pulled the trigger ten times.”

Will hesitates at the entrance. “Wait, so, psych eval isn’t a formality?

“No, it’s so I can get some sleep at night.” Jack answers, firmer. 

And how well did that turn out for Jack, Will wondered bitterly. The sense of irony that it provided him overwhelmed everything else, especially seeing his current predicament.

“I asked you to get close to the Hobbs thing, I need to know you didn’t get too close. How many nights did you spend in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room?” Jack continues, raising an eyebrow, meaningfully.

“Therapy doesn’t work on me.” Will replies.

“If only.” Will commented.

Jack glances at Alana, and then makes his way closer towards Will. “Hmm. Therapy doesn’t work on you, because you won’t let it.”

“Cause I know all the tricks.” Will says.

“Well, perhaps you need to un-learn some tricks.” Jack counters.

In hindsight, Jack thought, grimacing, perhaps badgering Graham into therapy had not been his best idea.

Alana cuts in. “Why not have a conversation with Hannibal? He was there, he knows what you went through.”

Hannibal was exactly the reason for what he had gone through, Will knew that now.

Will pulls off his glasses, and then starts to walk away. 

“Come on, Will.” Jack coaxed. “I need my beauty sleep.”

Price choked at that, a disbelieving snort escaping him at the delivery of that line.

Will doesn’t even glance back.

 

***

 

The scene cuts to Hannibal’s office, where Hannibal is tidying some papers on his desk. Will Graham is in the background, high above near the bookshelves on a mezzanine overlooking the rest of the office. 

Will’s face drained of colour, as he remembered this. Surely it would not show his sessions with Hannibal-

Hannibal walks towards Will, and pauses.

“What’s that?” Will asks.

“Your Psychological Evaluation.” Hannibal replies. “You’re totally functional and more or less sane. Well done.”

“Did you just rubber stamp me?” 

Alana felt sickened at the blatant disregard for privacy. Will’s sessions should have been private, for no one’s ears other than his own and his therapist, even as she drew back as if burnt, away from the mere thought of Hannibal. She met Will’s own, pale gaze from across the room, and saw the silent panic in his eyes.

“Yes.” Hannibal answers. “Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork.”

“Can we skip this part?” Alana asked, in a low voice, leaning over to where Zeller and the rest of the science team sat.

Zeller glanced down at the remote, then paused the screen. “There’s only two buttons.” He said apologetically. “We could stop this disc, but I’m not sure about the others.”

Jack frowned, and did what he always did - he made the hard choice. “Play it.” He ordered.

Alana drew to her feet. “Jack, this is a blatant breach in doctor-patient confidentiality.” She said sharply.

Jack gritted his teeth. “It was never official. We need to know what happened. If this… thing is showing it to us, then it must mean something.”

“Jack, it’s Will’s privacy.” She argued, through clenched teeth. “I can’t believe this.”

“Then, don’t.” Jack bit back. “Zeller, continue it.”

Zeller looked uncertainly between Alana and Jack. At his boss’s pointed glare, he wordlessly did as told, muttering out a quick apology, turning away, unable to meet either of their eyes. 

Will continues to pace. “Jack thinks I need therapy.”

Alana looked just about ready to wrestle for control of the remote. She closed her mouth with an audible clench, teeth gritting together. 

Hannibal watches him for a moment. “What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there.”

Hannibal was already triangulating himself between them, Jack realised with a surge of pained anger. He wondered whether it had been like this from the very beginning.

“Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back.” Will says.

“A surrogate daughter?” 

Will debates arguing the suggestion, then doesn’t.

“You saved Abigail Hobbs’ life. You also orphaned her.” Hannibal continues. “It comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders.

Will felt the nausea churn within the hollow of his gut, tumbling with every passing second. He recalled with frightening clarity some of the things that he had confided to Hannibal - things that nobody else was ever supposed to hear. Ever.

“You were there, you saved her life too.” Will counters. “Do you feel obligated?”

The warmth of Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder distracted him for the fraction of a second. Will stilled under the contact, before the tight fist over his heart constricted to the point of suffocation. He contemplated bucking off the contact, before resigning himself to it. 

A lure, he reminded himself. He still needed to craft the bait.

“Yes.” Hannibal replies. Then, “I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I’ve fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs.”

“Of course you did.” Will muttered, heaving, as his breaths came in short bursts.

Will studies Hannibal for a moment. “Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls.”

A long silence. Then, Hannibal asks, “How does that make you feel?” 

“How does it make you feel?” 

“I find it vulgar.” Hannibal says.

“Me too.” Will replies, and the words rush out in blunt relief.

“That’s… not how therapy works.” Chilton said, spluttering.

“Of course not,” Will corrected flatly. “Because you think it involves a lot more mind games and drugs. Isn’t that right, Chilton?”

‘What.” Alana burst out.

“What? No! That’s an outrageous lie! ” Chilton covered up, hastily, with a nervous laugh. He pointed at the screen. “Oh, look, the plot is moving forward. Wouldn’t want to miss it, after all. Ahem.”

Hannibal continues, “And entirely possible.”

“It’s not what happened.” Will says.

“Jack will ask her when she wakes up. Or, he’ll have one of us ask her.”

“Is this therapy or a support group?” Will asks, still pacing around the top of the room.

“It’s whatever you need it to be.” Hannibal tells him. 

“No, Hannibal.” Will corrected, low enough so only Hannibal could hear him. “It’s whatever you think I need it to be.”

“And what would that be?” Hannibal asks, curiously.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Will replied, sarcastically. “Savagery, perhaps.”

Will pauses, and leans against the railing. “And, Will?” Hannibal says, pulling back his attention. “The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself. Not the worst of someone else.”

A beat, as this sinks in.

 

***

 

The scene cuts to three boys trekking through dense vegetation. The caption at the bottom reads ‘Elk Neck State Forest, Maryland’. They enter a clearing. The boys stop short as they approach a burlap sack covering something.

“What is it?” One of them asks.

“I bet it's marijuana.” Another replies.

“Kids these days.” Beverly shook her head, then paused. “Oh my god, I feel so old.”

“Or mushrooms. Look, they got tubes to water ‘em or something.”

“No, it’s a marijuana plant.” The boy insists. 

One of them pokes away at a plant, to reveal a human arm protruding from the ground. The boy steps back.

Jimmy looked into the distance, the metaphorical camera, as if he was in the Office. “It was not marijuana.” He monotoned. ‘Don’t do drugs, kids.”

Zeller discretely elbowed him.

“That’s not marijuana.”

Camera pulls back to reveal that the small clearing is filled with human hands sticking out from the ground, each connected to tubes and covered in mushrooms.

 

***

 

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! 

Beverly Katz walks through the shooting range, where Will is standing in a stall, blasting away at the target. The camera pans out to show that most of his shots miss. Will is visibly unhappy with his accuracy, but relieved that he’s not seeing Hobbs. He pulls off the earmuffs.

And here it is, Will thought tiredly - the spectre of Jack, ready once more, to plunge Will back into the thick of another case. Each one had blurred in his mind, making it infinitely harder to distinguish reality from the sickness that the stag had enveloped him in. 

“I’m pretty sure firearm ‘accuracy’ isn’t a prerequisite for teaching.” Beverly comments, coming to a stop behind Will.

Will turns around to find Beverly behind him, looking on. She smiles. 

He turns back. “I’ve been in the field before.”

“Now you’re back in the saddle. Ish.” Beverly says.

“Ish indeed.” Will replies, unclipping the target board. “It took me ten shots to drop Hobbs.”

“Zeller wanted to give you the bullets he pulled out of Hobbs in an acrylic case, but…” Beverly shakes her head. “I told him you wouldn’t think it was funny.”

Zeller winced, sheepishly. “You told him about that?”

“Uh-huh.” Beverly said, unapologetically. “We bonded over your terrible sense of humour.”

“Probably not.” Will agrees, as he pulls down the barrier after setting up a new target cut-out.

“I suggested one of those clacking-swinging ball things.” Beverly continued.

Will sighs, and turns to look at her. “That would have been funny.”

They both pull on the protective earmuffs. Will raises the gun, and fires at the target. It misses the target entirely.

“Getting accurate shots in real life is harder than it looks.” Beverly offers, in defence.

“To be fair,” Will says, “I think half my brain was beginning to catch on fire at that time.”

“Point.” 

“You’re a Weaver.” Beverly says. “I took you for an Isosceles guy.”

“I have a rotator-cuff issue,” Will answers, “So I have to use the Weaver stance.”

Beverly puts a hand on his right shoulder, moving forward and pressing down gently. Will gives a slight noise of surprise. 

“Touchy-touchy.” Price teased quietly under his breath, so that only Beverly could hear. 

“You are tight.” Beverly says.

“I got stabbed when I was a cop.” Will says, resuming his stance.

Will was acutely aware of the way that Hannibal minutely tightened his grip on his shoulder. It didn’t exactly hurt per say, but it was awkward. He knew that Hannibal knew that he was fully aware, and yet his former psychiatrist made no move to draw back.

“Yeah, I got stabbed in the third grade, with a number 2 pencil.” Beverly replies. “Thought I was going to get lead poisoning.”

“Uh, no lead in pencils.” Will corrects, somewhat confused, while Beverly continues to correct his stance. “It’s graphite.”

“Oof.” Zeller said. Then, “He’s got a point.”

“There goes my villain origin story.” Beverly sighed, dramatically. “Alas.”

“See if that helps with the recoil.” Beverly tells him, and then takes a step back.

Will exhales, and fires. The bullet holes appear in closer clusters, nearer to the centre.

Beverly and Will pull off the earmuffs, and watch as the target is wheeled towards them. “That was better.” Will admits. Then, “You came all the way down here to teach me how to shoot?”

“No.” Beverly replies. “Jack sent me down here to find out what you know about gardening .” The last word is said meaningfully. 

“And here we go.” Will said, exhaling.

Will turns to look at her.

Notes:

So, just a heads up, I might be a little delayed for the next one or two months, because of exams. Rest assured, I will be updating this until the very end. Thank you all so much for reading!

As usual, drop a comment, leave kudos! :D

Chapter 9: Therapy

Summary:

Watching the deconstruction of his own, well, decriminalisation of the crime scene, would never stop feeling weird to Will.

The scene cuts abruptly to a bed of nest-shaped mushrooms,  sprouting out from decaying matter. A pale hand lying by the side shows quite clearly that the fungi are growing on a dead body. A sign labelled ‘6’ is at the body’s feet. The person’s face is covered in a morbidly vibrant kingdom of fungus and mold.

“Mushroom people.” Beverly shuddered. “Ergh. That was certainly a mycelium nightmare.”

“I stopped eating mushrooms after that.” Jimmy confessed. “Which was a bummer, because I really used to like it.”

The coroners carry and place the body in a body bag. There are at least three others nearby, waiting to be transported.

Beverly peels back a part of the mushrooms, to reveal the victim’s exposed jaw and face. 

It took all of Bedelia's best efforts to hide her involuntary recoil at that. 

“So.” Jack says, walking with Will towards the yellow tape cordoning off the area. “Lecter gave you the ‘all clear’? Therapy might work on you after all.”

There was an awkward, telling silence at this.

“Therapy is an acquired taste which I have yet to acquire.” Will replies flatly. “But, uh, it served your purpose. I’m back in the field.”

Jack maintained a passive mask at that pointed rebuttal, now more so than ever.

Jack lifts the yellow tape up for Will, and then follows him in. “Local police found some tire tracks on a hidden service road and some small animal traps in the surrounding area.”

“He wanted to keep his crop undisturbed.” Will says.

“The only thing missing is the scarecrow.” Jack agrees.

“Mushroom scarecrow.” Jimmy mused. “I wonder what that would look like.”

“Don’t jinx it.” Zeller told him.

Beverly Katz and Brian Zeller are nearby, crouched, as they work on gathering evidence from the scene and unearth the three remaining buried victims from their shallow graves. 

“Okay, we got nine bodies. Various stages of decay, as you can see.” Jimmy Price explains. “All very well fertilised.”

Beverly stands up. “He buried them in a high-nutrient compost. He was enthusiastically encouraging decomposition.”

Encouraging connection, Will corrected mentally. Not decomposition. It worked as an antagonistic pair - because while the body decayed, the mycelium flourished. It was a, ah, food chain, the transfer of energy from one being to another, subverted.

“They were buried alive with the intention of keeping them that way.” Zeller adds on. “Uh, I mean, for a little while. Long enough for the fungus to eat away any distinguishing characteristics.” He points at something above. “Line and rebar were to administer intravenous fluids after they were buried. He was feeding them something.”

Beverly nodded. ‘Sugar water.” She echoed. 

“No restraints?” Will asks.

“Just dirt.” Jimmy answers.

“The other end of the air supply system comes up over there.” Beverly says, pointing. “It isn’t a very considerate clean air solution, which clearly wasn’t a priority. Cause, he isn’t lazy.”

“No, he’s not.” Will agrees.

“Meticulous.” Will said. “With a practised ease.”

Off some unseen signal, the three start to clear the area. Jimmy clears his throat, while Beverly asks, “You find any shiitakes?”

“No.” Jimmy answers, almost sadly, then going out of view.

Alana gave a strangled laugh at that.

Will stares at the corpse in the garden grave. 

“Welcome back.” Jack says, and then walks away.

The straggling E.M.T.s and local police also start to exit the clearing and back into the surrounding woods, stepping away from Will and the graves. From outside the yellow tape, Freddie Lounds watches this, interestedly.

Will had wondered why Lounds had been so intent on following him around - it seemed that the mushroom man case had been the stressor for this. 

“Yeah, and tell Sandra to give me a call, will you?” One of the officers says. “Thank you.”

In her hands, Freddie Lounds is holding a camera. She surreptitiously starts snapping photos of Will as Jack leads the others away.

“Lounds.” Jack growled, under his breath, his tension already at a fraying point.

She lowers and hides the camera, and sidles up beside a local detective. “Excuse me,” Freddis says, “I’m one of the parents of the explorers who found the bodies. I wanted to thank you for being so good with all the boys.”

“Those boys were very brave.” The detective says. 

“They are good boys.” Freddie agrees. Then, “You’re a local police detective?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Would it be an imposition to ask a few things?” She continues. “The boys are gonna have questions and I just want to be as honest with them as I can.”

“Of course.” The detective answers.

“Can you, uh, tell me what that man is doing over there by himself?” Freddie asks. The camera pans to show Will Graham, standing alone, in the garden grave.

Alana was accustomed to the surge of protective anger that she usually felt over Will, despite how hard she tried to tamper with. She knew that he could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop her from trying to protect him to the best of her ability. 

“He’s some kind of special consultant.” The detective replies. “Works for the FBI.”

“Huh.” Freddie says, intrigued.

Hannibal watched, curiously. He recalled the words that Will had exchanged with him during their sessions during this particular case. It would prove to be fascinating to watch Will decriminalise the crime scene again - he felt as if he was at that certain stage in time where he would never tire of the recreations. 

The camera is back on Will. He stands, gazing around, looking for something. The sound becomes muted as the scene closes in on his face. Will closes his eyes. The pendulum swings in the darkness of his mind, keeping in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Beverly sat up straighter. This part - Will’s deductions and leaps in logic - never failed to amaze her.

But with the deeper look being shown, it was also infinitely easier to understand the seemingly impossible jumps. 

Will opens his eyes. His feet take a step back, and then another, slowly. The evidence of the crime scene is erased away, the bodies back in the ground, and the mushrooms sprouting from the dirt. As he continues to move back, the mushrooms wane, yellow veins disappearing, the soil flying backwards into a shovel.

Hannibal did not miss the vibrancy of the colours, nor did he skip past the artistry of the recreation. It intrigued and enraptured him in equal measure. 

The pendulum swings. There is a naked man in the shallow grave, motionless, but whole.

The pendulum swings. The man is gone. The grave is empty.

Watching the deconstruction of his own, well, decriminalisation of the crime scene, would never stop feeling weird to Will. It felt so drawn out, and simple. Reality was unlike that - it was fluid, and messy. Will wasn’t sure which he preferred. 

Will closes his eyes. The pendulum stops mid-way, as Will snaps into a very clear focus. When he opens his eyes, he is standing over the grave, a shovel in one hand. He starts to dig the shovel into the moist, black dirt. 

“I do not bind his arms or legs.” Will says, still digging. “As I bury him in a shallow grave.”

The dirt that he shovels onto the man falls over in a cascade, reversed from earlier. 

“He’s alive.” Will continues, looking intently. “But he will never be conscious again.”

Will digs, still burying the man. The next shot goes dark, and then it shows Will leaning down, covering the man’s mouth with duct tape.

“He won’t know that he’s dying.” Will says. Then, almost carelessly, “I don’t need him to.”

Bedelia could almost understand Hannibal’s fascination with Graham, over the ease that he had slipped into the skin of monsters.

Will fixes the oxygen tube into the man’s nose, then tethers his arm to a piece of rebar, fixing the catheter in place. 

“This is my design,” Will says, but when he looks back, it's Garret Jacob Hobbs lying in that grave, eyes pale and sightless, body still soaked in the blood from where Will had shot him.

There was a surge of sharp inhales from around the room. Alana’s gaze flitted back to Will, as she felt the guilt come back full-force.

Will stares, shakes, caught in a vacuum, unable to breathe. He is abruptly dropped back into reality, the background changing behind him. 

At the police line, Freddie Lounds and the detective watch Will lean over the grave, kneeling, obviously out of it. The detective notices that the Wildlife Explorers are being gathered up by their parents and moved off. 

Will felt his lip curl in distaste.

“I think your family is leaving.” The detective tells Freddie.

‘We drove separately.” Freddie replies, unable to even take her eyes off the scene in front.

Then, the fungus-covered arm grabs Will by the wrist. Will gasps. 

They all startled.

“Oh my god.” Beverly shivered, shuddering. ‘I nearly forgot about that.”

There is a rattled, wet gasp from the fungus-covered body signals and slight movement. The dead man’s starts to move, horrifically.

Zeller couldn’t help but think it was mercy that the man had died on the way to the hospital. It would have been an unimagineable torture to continue living like… that. The man looked like an honest-to-god zombie .

Jack watches, stunned.

Will stands to his feet.

“Don’t touch him!” Jimmy shouts, racing towards the scene, followed by Beverly, Zeller and some officers.

“Oh, my god.” Someone else says, repeats. “Oh, my god.”

 

***

 

The Psych Eval letter bearing Hannibal Lecter’s approval lands with a thud on the desk of the man himself.

“This may have been premature.” Will tells him.  

Alana choked back an inappropriate giggle. The sheer timing of the cut was deliberately unfortunate.

Hannibal studies the letter, then looks at Will. “What did you see?” He asks, then clarifies, “Out in the field.”

“Hobbs.” Will answers, reluctantly.

“An association?”

“No, a hallucination.” Will replies. “I saw him lying there in someone else’s grave.”

“Did you tell Jack what you saw?” Hannibal asks.

“No.”

Jack’s fingers clenched at his side at that.

Then, “It’s stress.” Hannibal says. “Not worth reporting. You displaced the victim of another killer’s crime with what could arguably be considered your victim.”

Will knew by now that Hannibal had known about the encephalitis. The realisation made him furious. 

Everything had been an act. Taking Will for the MRI, convincing him that it was nothing but stress - Sutcliffe’s death, Georgia’s murder, all that had been Hannibal tying up the loose ends.

“I don’t consider Hobbs my victim.” Will tells him.

“What do you consider him?”

“Dead.” Will replies, flatly.

Beverly raised an eyebrow at that. Damn, Graham.

“Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing, now that you’ve done it yourself?”

Will’s fingers dug hard into his own palm. He dreaded what would happen next.

There is a long, fragmented pause. Then, Will nods, silently.

The pit of his gut dropped.

But Will was grateful for the fact that nobody else said anything aloud. Oh, he knew for a fact what they were all most likely thinking, but it was easier to feign ignorance, this way. Small mercies, at least.

Hannibal lets that soak in the air, before changing the subject. “The arms.” He says. “Why did he leave them exposed? To hold their hands? To feel the life leaving their bodies?”

He walks towards Will, who is still leaning against a nearby pillar. 

Will dismisses the theory immediately. “No. That’s too esoteric for someone who took the time to bury his victims in a straight line. He’s more practical.”

The worst part about all of this, Will thought, was that he had missed… this . He longed for the ease of their easy exchange, as it had been back then. He simultaneously pitied and envied his past self, who had remained so blissfully blind. 

“He was cultivating them.” Hannibal says.

“He was keeping them alive.” Will corrects. “He was feeding them intravenously.”

“But, your farmer let his crops die, save for the one that didn’t.” 

“Well, and the one that didn’t died on the way to the hospital.” Will answers, “Though they weren’t the crops. They were the fertilizer. The bodies were covered in fungus.”

“Fertilizer.” Zeller muttered, thinking back. “Well, that’s certainly one word for it.”

Hannibal sighs. “The structure of a fungus mirrors that of a human brain. An intricate web of connections.”

Will thinks about this for a moment. “So maybe he admires their ability to connect, the way human minds can’t.”

“Yours can.” Hannibal says. The lines around his eyes crinkle, as it startles a laugh out of Will. 

Alana watched the exchange, silently. The advantage of foresight was not a kind gift, and she could see and understand all too clearly how the betrayal would have shaped itself out. Part of her was surprised at how good Hannibal was at interacting with Will, but this was largely overshadowed by the dread. 

It was startling, to see the two act with each other in a way that she could never have imagined, showing angles that she had not even known existed. 

“Yep. Um. Yeah, not physically.” Will tells him.

The fondness ached .

Hannibal draws back, in contemplation. “Is that what your farmer is looking for? Some sort of connection.”

The question hangs in the air. Will raises his eyebrows.

The scene cuts to a high-powered microphone held against the wall. 

For a moment, Will could see nothing but the narrow tunneling of his own vision. He felt himself shake with barely suppressed rage, coiled and ready to spring. There was a sick twist of violation in the pit of his gut. 

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice sounded so distant. So very far away. Muffled, drowned through water.

Will’s heartbeat slowed, skipped. 

“I made her delete it.” Hannibal continued, softly, with words that were only meant for their ears. If the psychiatrist had meant it as some platitude of comfort, well then he was fucking wrong.

And you shoved an ear down my throat, Will thought hysterically. The feigned softness clawed away at his mind - false skin hiding jagged teeth. His head hurt.

The muffled words filter through, “Have a good evening, Will.”

Hannibal moves towards the door, just as Freddie quickly unplugs the device and puts them in her bag, taking a few discrete steps forward. The door suddenly swings open behind her, revealing Hannibal.

Anger crawled through Alana’s veins, suffused with disbelief. How had Lounds even known Will’s appointment time?

“Miss Kimball?” Hannibal asks.

“Yes?” Freddie says.

“Good evening. Please come in.” Hannibal shuts the door behind her.

Notes:

So... I'm back. This past month has been a lot. It's been a rough time, but it's getting better. Thank you so much for all the support. I treasure every single comment.

I'll do my best to update max every two weeks. As usual suggestions and ideas are always welcome!

Chapter 10: Lounds

Hannibal is behind Freddie Lounds, watching as she takes in the sights around her.

“I’ve never seen a psychiatrist before.” Freddie says. “And, I am unfortunately thorough, so you’re one of the three doctors I’m interviewing. It’s more or less a bake-off.”

“I’m very supportive of bake-offs.” Hannibal replies. “It’s important you find someone you’re comfortable with.”

It’s more important that you find someone that you can trust , Alana thought harshly.

“I can imagine you as my therapist.” Freddie says, “Which is good. If I can’t visualise opening up emotionally, I know it would be a problem.”

Visualising opening people up physically,  on the other hand, was far easier. Nearly half of them in that room could attest to that fact. 

“May I ask why now?” 

Freddie changes the subject hurriedly. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions first?”  She takes a seat. 

“Of course not.” Hannibal answers, politely.

“I love that you’ve written so much on social exclusion.” Freddie continues. “Since that’s why I’m here, I was wondering-”

Hannibal cuts her off mid-sentence. “Are you Freddie Lounds?”

Slight tension escaped Will at that. Even though the events had already happened, viewing through the events and analysing the individual scenes still felt weirdly cathartic. 

It’s as though he snatched the air right out of her throat. “Huh.” Freddie exhales, and looks away.

“This is unethical, even for a tabloid journalist.” Hannibal says.

“I am, uh,” Freddie tries, standing to her feet. “I am so embarrassed.”

Beverly could not help but notice the colour that Freddie had worn. It was morbidly apt, like something straight out of a fairy tale - Little Red walking straight into the den of the wolf.

Disapproval radiates from Hannibal. Then, “I’m afraid I must ask for your bag.”

“What?”

“Your bag.” Hannibal’s face is stern. “Please hand it over. I’d rather not take it from you.”

Freddie does as instructed.

“Thank you.” Hannibal says, and then opens the bag.

“I was recording our conversation.” Freddie says, trying to come up with an excuse.

Will watched grimly, feeling a small measure of vindictive satisfaction at this. 

“Our conversation?” His tone is sceptical. “Yours and mine?”

“Yes.”

“No other conversation?”

“No.”

Hannibal closes the bag. “You were very persistent about your appointment time. How did you know when Will Graham would be here?”

“I may have also recorded your session with Will Graham.” Freddie admits.

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you know?”

“I can’t answer that question.” Freddie says.  Hannibal studies her, then walks over to pat the cushion of the seat next to him, beckoning her like a child or a pet. “Come. Sit by me.” 

Beverly raised an eyebrow at that, but otherwise made no move to comment. 

Freddie eyes Hannibal, not sure if she should bolt or do exactly what he tells her to do. She chooses the latter.

“Delete the conversations you recorded.” He hands her the device from the bag. “Doctor-patient confidentiality works both ways.” “Delete it. Please.”

Freddie, rattled, does as she is told. She hands it back to Hannibal. He examines it, satisfied that the recordings were deleted.

Will spared another moment to be grateful that Lounds was not in the room at the moment. It would not turn out well for either party, he was certain of it. 

“You’ve been terribly rude, Miss Lounds.” Hannibal continues, He sets aside the bag, and then turns to gaze directly at her. “What’s to be done about that?”

 

***

 

Classical music plays, as the scene changes to that of a dark red sauce being poured over an elegantly designed meal.

For the barest second, Jimmy thought that Lounds was the meal. The framing was- rather strongly suggestive. 

“Loin, served with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits.” Hannibal explains. 

“Uh, loin. What kind?” Jack Crawford asks.

“Pork.” Hannibal replies, without missing a beat.

It was not pork. They all knew this to be true. 

Jack’s jaw clenched, tightly, as the memory flooded his senses and mind in an all too clear recollection. His voice came out as a low, strangled growl. ‘It’s not pork. You fed me human .”

“It was pig.” Hannibal replied. “But only in a derogatory sense.”

“Wonderful.” Jack says. “I don’t get many opportunities to, uh, eat home-cooked meals. My wife and I both work, and uh, as hard as I tried not to, I did wind up marrying my mother.”

For some reason, that sounded… really wrong. There was an awkward pause.

Hannibal takes a seat in front of his own plate of ‘pork’. “Your mother didn’t cook?”

“She did, she did.” Jack answers. ‘I only wish she didn’t.” Using the fork and knife provided, he starts to cut into the slice of meat. “There was this meal she used to prepare. She liked to call it, ‘Oriental noodles’. Spaghetti, soy sauce, bouillon cubes and Spam. I was very thin as a youngster.”

“Yum.” Jimmy said, at the same time that Zeller made a face. 

“Well, next time, bring your wife.” Hannibal says. “I’d love to have you both for dinner.”

“Cannibal pun alert.” Jimmy stage-whispered, in equal parts fascination and horror.

The expression of steely anger on Jack’s face spasmed slightly, anger and pained understanding passing by in a flash too fast to decipher. 

“Thank you.”

Hannibal looked immensely pleased with himself. Will looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

Jack takes a bite. “Hmm.” He nods. “Lovely. So, why do you think Will Graham came back to see you?”

Here we go, Chilton heaved a sigh. Back to Will Graham, again.

Before, he would have happily absorbed every second of it - because Will’s psyche was unique - but in light of recent revelations, well-

Come on! Hannibal the Cannibal!

Who wouldn’t be interested?

“I’m sure he recognises the necessity of his own support structure, if he is to go on supporting you in the field.” Hannibal answers.

“Well, I believe that a guy like Will Graham knows exactly what’s going on inside of his head,” Jack continues, “Which is why he doesn’t want anyone else up there.”

“It is my mind, Jack.” Will said bitingly. 

“Are you not accustomed to broken ponies in your stable?” Hannibal asks.

Alana winced at that. Will’s face went even more blank, if that was possible. 

Jack thinks about this for a moment. “You think Will Graham is a broken pony?”

“I think,” Hannibal says, “You think Will Graham is a broken pony. You ever lost a pony, Jack?”

The pieces clicked together in Jack’s mind. He felt his eyes widen, as understanding crashed down hard . His gaze instinctively sought out Will, and the confirmation dealt a blow that was as devastating as finding out that Hannibal had been behind the crimes that Will was accused for. 

The inquiry hits its mark. “If you’re asking me whether or not I’ve ever lost someone in the field,” Jack replies, “The answer is yes. Why?”

Hannibal was not blind to this exchange. He stilled his motions, even as curiosity and anticipation settled behind his eyes. 

It seemed that dear old Jack had finally connected the dots between Miriam Lass and his own subtle pokes about it. 

“I want to understand why you’re so delicate with Will. Because you don’t trust him, or because you’re afraid of losing another pony.”

“No.” Jack breathed, breaking the already unstable equilibrium that had settled over all of them. Beverly turned to give him a wary, inquisitive glance.

Jack inhales. “I’ve already had my psych eval.”

“Oh yes .” Will said grimly, tiredly. “Say hello to the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Hannibal smiles warmly. “Not by me. You’ve already told me about your mother. Why stop there?”

“Hello, Jack.” Hannibal said politely, eyes glinting, fully aware of everything that was going on at that moment.  

Jack is charmed. He smiles back, as Hannibal raises a glass of wine as a toast.

Beverly inhaled sharply. “The organ mutilations.” She realised. “The missing organs.”

“Alright.” He laughs, raising his own glass. “Alright.”

The glasses clink together, and they each take a drink. 

“ Fuck .” Zeller swore under his breath, as he watched Jack toast to the Chesapeake Ripper.

Notes:

It's been a crazy past year, and I just want to say thank you all so much for your continued support! I read and treasure every single comment ❤️

As always, suggestion or ideas are always welcome! :D

Chapter 11: Revelations

If the Chesapeake Ripper was mirrors and teeth and angles that cut - the flavour of brutal savagery flourishing through artistry - then the Copycat Killer was all shadows and lies and mists obscuring a knife behind a smile. Masks were as inconsequential as the person that wears them. Will flexed his fingers and stared down. He felt like a ghost, drifting across a moor, knee-deep in a river of blood, neck-deep in a woven web of puppet strings. 

He watched as the rage coalesced into a writhing, living thing behind the smokescreen of Jack’s eyes, pupils razor-sharp and brimming with fury and grief. 

And Will wondered, and?

So the monster peeled away another layer of skin. 

So the light exposed more teeth, more claws, the way that blood glistened freely. 

(So something abstract became just a little bit more real)

The Chesapeake Ripper. The Copycat Killer. 

One monster. 

One man.

The rest of the room looked stricken. Will could not blame them. Hannibal held the weight of the room like an eclipse, still looking regal and put-together as always, but his eyes continued to shift as tumultuous as the sea, the colour of entrancing brown so dark that it merged on maroon, glittering with the shadow of secrets well-kept.

The world around him felt flimsy, like it would fall apart at the slightest touch.

But that screen kept playing, no matter how many times that Zeller jabbed at it, muttering as he shook the remote. 

It drew Will's attention to it like a moth to the flames. He glanced at it, in the direction of the only motion in that room. The air felt stiflingly hot all of a sudden, as the rest of the room marinated in a brew of salty-sticky fear and unease.

Back in Quantico, the mushroom-covered corpses are being examined in individual labs.

“What were they soaked in?” Will Graham asks.

“A highly concentrated mixture of hardwoods, shredded newspaper, and pig poop.” Jimmy answers him. “Perfect for growing mushrooms and other fungi.”

“It was not the mushrooms, though.” Zeller continues. “They all died of kidney failure.”

Beverly enters the lab. “Dextrose in all the catheters.” She adds. “He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after their circulatory systems broke down.”

Jimmy struggled to concentrate. It felt as if half his mind was still in a haze of shock, unable to process. Finding out that the Chesapeake Ripper - the literal bogeyman of Baltimore - was someone that they had known? That he had interacted with? 

It was even harder to stomach. 

Pun very much intended. 

Will walks closer to the mushroom-corpse. “Force-feeding them sugar water?”

“You know who loves sugar water?” Jimmy says. “Mushrooms. They crave it.”

“Recovering alcoholics. They crave sugar.” Zeller adds, then turns to Jimmy. “Uh, don’t take that personally, buddy."

“Oh, I’m not recovering.”

Zeller’s features didn’t even flicker at that normally light-hearted exchange. 

“Feed sugar to the fungus in your body.” Zeller continues, “Uh, the fungus creates alcohol, so it’s… like friends helping friends, really.”

“It’s not just alcoholics who have compromised endocrine systems.” Will says. The other three turn to look at him. “They all died of kidney failure?”

Zeller nods. 

“Death by diabetic ketoacidosis.” Will continues.

There was an aching gap past his ribs that did not let Will forget how far gone the past truly was. Simpler times. All that he once was pieces scattered to the wind, slipping through his fingers, and he wondered how much was left behind. 

Beverly turns to Zeller. “Did you know they were diabetics?”

“We don’t know they were diabetics.” Zeller counters.

“No, they’re all diabetics.” Will corrects. “He induces a coma and puts them in the ground.”

“How is he inducing diabetic comas?” Beverly asks, with a slight frown.

“Changes their medication. So he’s a doctor or a pharmacist or he works somewhere in medical services.”

Will had been right on every count. Had always been. 

(A truth was still a truth, no matter how ugly.)

Jack tasted rust in his mouth.

“He buries them.” Beverly realises. “Feeds them sugar to keep them alive long enough for the circulatory systems to soak it up.”

“So he can feed the mushrooms.” Jimmy adds.

It was always, always about hunger, wasn’t it?

A thought occurs to Zeller. “We dug up his mushroom garden.”

“Yeah, he’s gonna want to grow a new one.” Will agrees.

(Hunger. Satiation. Rinse, repeat.)

 

***

 

The scene cuts to an extreme close up on blue and white pills as they roll and turn, funnelling from the automated pill dispenser into a pill bottle. The background is revealed to be a pharmacy.

Beverly watched like a hawk. The extra bits of knowledge, from angles that no security camera or live feed could ever capture, was strangely hypnotising. There was a complexity created from such a simple action, casting the world that she knew in a different light. 

A woman steps up to the counter. ‘I’m picking up a prescription for Gretchen Speck.” She says.

“Gretchen Speck.” The pharmacist types. Then, “Horowitz?”

“Oh, it’s just Speck. We’re divorced. I lost the hyphen, kept the ring.”

“Oh. Insulin?” The pharmacist asks.

“Yes.”

Eldon Stammets goes to pick the bag. He glances at the prescription. “Oh. Oh, it’s the wrong one. Just…” He holds up a hand.

“Uh-oh.” Gretchen says.

“No, no. It’s okay.” Eldon replies. “Just gonna be one second.”

Chilton shifted in his seat. He resigned himself to watching all this mindless filler, mind racing, as he worked hard to figure out a way to escape unscathed. He knew things now - things that could get him killed if he wasn’t careful. But that was a small price to pay. It was worth it . 

He takes a different bottle, wraps it in the bag and hands it to her. “There. There you go.” He says.

Gretchen takes it.

“Oh, could you sign here please?” Eldon asks. Then, “And that’s your correct address?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” She says, then takes the bag and begins to leave.

Eldon Stammets watches her go.

(A hunt is still a hunt even before you know it to be one)

 

***

 

“Mrs James.” Eldon says, placing another bag on the counter. “If you could sign here, please. Mmm-hmm.”

Outside, there is a small flurry of movement as several armed, dark-clad figures creep in swiftly and silently, moving along the outside of the building, weaving through parked cars and taking up positions.

At least the plot was picking up pace, Chilton thought morosely.

The camera cuts back to the inside. ‘Thank you.” Stammets says, taking the form from the customer.

Outside, the figures continue to move. “She’s the chain’s 10th diabetic customer to disappear after filling a prescription for insulin.” Jack says, as both he and Will move into the frame, walking intently. ‘Second to disappear from this exact location.”

They enter the main doors of the pharmacy like regular customers.

“And the other eight?’ Will asks.

“All over the county.” Jack answers. “One pharmacist all over the county, as well.”

Caught ‘em, Beverly thought in satisfaction.

She liked this part of the job the best.

“Floater, huh?”

“Floater’s floating right here. Still logged into his work station.”

Jack, Will, and several agents make their way to the Pharmacy counter. “Everyone. Please stop what you are doing.” Jack says, raising his voice. “Put your hands in the air.”

The six pharmacists at the counter do as instructed, abruptly realising that there are many FBI agents surrounding them.

Jack pulls out his badge. “Special Agent Jack Crawford. Which one of you is Eldon Stammets?”

“Eldon was just here.” One of the pharmacists say, frantically turning to look. “Just now.”

Damn Lounds. 

“Is his car still in the parking lot?” Will asks.

Jack turns to look at Will, at the same time that the pharmacists look out the window. Jack turns back. “His car!” He barks out.

Will, the pharmacist, and several agents rush towards the car outside. 

“Give me your baton.” Will says, and then uses it to smash open the driver side window of Eldon’s car. He reaches in, pops open the trunk, and then runs to the back of the car. Will lifts the trunk the rest of the way, revealing that it is completely filled with rich, dark soil.

Sometimes, Zeller forgot that Will had been a cop before becoming a consultant. 

Will digs through the soil, before uncovering an unconscious person buried inside, an oxygen mask over the mouth and nose. He lifts the person’s head, shouting, “She’s alive!”

Jack runs up next to him, coughing, recoiling at the stench. ‘E.M.Ts now!”

Will steps away from the trunk as the E.M.T.s move in.

The whole incident had been a close call. 

Almost too close for comfort.

‘All right.” Jack tells Will. ‘We know his name. We have his address, we have his car.”

Jimmy comes up behind him, with some trepidation. ‘Jack. We just checked the browser history at Stammets’ work station.”

The article, Will remembered with a grimace. It was strange how little that bothered him now. 

“Am I gonna want to hear this?”

“No.” Jimmy answers. ‘And yes, but mostly no.”

 

***

 

Beverly looked intently at something out of view. Jack joins her near the counter. 

“Freddie Lounds.” Zeller says. 

“Tattlecrime.com.” Jack reads aloud.

Jimmy made a face at that.

“The FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re headhunting them too.” Beverly reads the article. “Offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind…” She trails off. 

The weight of everyone’s gazes scratched away at the back of Will’s neck. He pretended not to take notice. Seemed like that was all he ever did these days.

“Keep going.” Jack says.

Beverly glances at Will, who is standing motionless nearby. “It’s about Will.”

“Go on.” Jack orders.

Alana’s lips pursed, displeasure flashing in her eyes. 

“One demented mind to catch... “ Beverly stops. “She goes into a lot of detail.”

Hannibal recalled every detail. He watched Will from the corner of his eyes, gauging his reaction, and wasn’t surprised to find out that there was none. 

“Son of a bitch.” Jack swears, hitting the counter lightly.

Almost as if it had read his innermost thoughts-

The scene changes to show Hannibal at his desk, the same “Takes One To Know One’ article open on his browser.

He closes the Ipad, shaking his head. ‘You are naughty, Miss Lounds.”

 

***

 

Freddie is washing her hands near a sink in the bathroom. There is a loud knocking at the door. 

Recollection flared in Jack’s narrowed gaze.

“Who is it?” She calls out, then makes her way towards. She closes her laptop on the way. ‘Who is it?” She repeats.

The door bursts open as it is kicked down. Several agents instantly burst into her room. A female agent grabs Freddie and throws her one the bed, pressing a knee into Freddie’s back, as they fix the cuffs.

Huh. 

Will took a split-second to digest that turn of events. The momentary reprieve from the all-seeing eye of the camera helped.

Zeller walks into the room. The agents haul Freddie back up and sit her on the bed.

“All clear.” Zeller calls out, as Jack Crawford enters the room.

“I appreciate the pageantry, Agent Crawford.” Freddie says. ‘But you can’t arrest me for writing an article.”

Pity, Alana mused. 

“You entered a federal crime scene without permission.” Jack told her sharply. 

‘Escorted by a detective.” She countered.

“Under false pretence!”

“It is as good as permission.” Freddie argues, calmly. 

“You lied to a police officer.” Jack says.

“You can’t arrest me for lying.”

Bedelia watched the back-and-forth exchange play out, unimpressed.

Jack studies her, then considers a different tact. “You got all that information from a local detective?” 

The camera pans in on Brian Zeller, standing behind Jack, looking blank and vaguely sick.

Zeller’s heart stopped. 

Beverly whipped her head around to stare at him. “Z?” She asked, shock colouring her voice.

“Lots of talk about your man Graham.” Freddie says. “Not to mention the rivalry of who gets the collar. A local police detective looking for a pissing contest with the FBI might have some insight.”

“Tell me you didn’t,” Jimmy blurted, face falling.

The camera alternates between Zeller, making it abundantly clear.

His voice failed him. “I- I-”

‘And evidently did.” Jack says.

“Sure did.” Freddie agrees.

Jack’s expression was serious. Part of him had suspected it. It made far too much sense - Will’s appointment times, details of the case privy to only a select few. But he had hoped otherwise. 

And right now, it was the least of their problems. 

“You know,” Jack leans closer. “The unfortunate timing of your article allowed a murderer to escape.” He reaches over with a tweezer and plucks a sample of her bright red hair. “You were in Minnesota. You were in the Shrike’s nest. You know how I know? Cause you left one of these hairs behind. You contaminated the crime scene. Just like everywhere you go, you contaminate crime scenes.”

“Someone got killed, Z!” Beverly hissed in a low tone. “Someone died!”

Zeller’s face twisted in guilt and desperation. “I know! Don’t you think I already know that, I was there!”

Freddie’s face is stony.

“That’s obstructing justice.” Jack continues. “I can indict you for obstructing justice.”

Suspension.

Zeller knew that he would be lucky to even get that if this got out, if Jack made a decision not to let this go unnoticed. Part of him knew that he deserved it. His mouth tasted like it had been stuffed with cotton. Even his hands were sweaty. All signs of guilt. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” She bites out.

“You don’t write another word about Will Graham.” Jack says, “And I won’t have to.”

He draws back, and leaves the room. The agents follow behind him, until only Zeller is left. He cuts the plastic cuffs off Freddie’s wrists. 

“You used me.” He said in a low voice, before leaving.

“Shit, Z,” Jimmy swore, hands gripping the edge of the seat tightly. “Shit.”

Notes:

This chapter was so hard to write :')

The next update should come come faster, after this. Theoretically 👀

Thank you all so much for reading! Drop a comment or leave kudos <3

Chapter 12: End of Amuse-Bouche

Will is sitting silently in his chair, watching an unconscious Abigail Hobbs, still comatose in her hospital bed. The caption at the bottom of the screen reads ‘Baltimore, Maryland’. A distance thumping overtakes the sound of the ventilators, growing louder and louder. When Will turns to look at the open door, he catches a glimpse of a huge, black stag walking past the doorway.

Reality. Dreams.

The membrane between them was so thin, that sometimes, Will couldn’t tell in which world he lived in. 

It’s in his head. 

The scene changes into the thud of footsteps, specifically high-heels as they come to a stop at the entrance. The camera reveals that Will has been fast asleep, curled up with his head tucked against his folded jacket.

Alana pulls off her heels, slipping out of them and setting them aside, gently so as not to disturb Will. 

Recognition of the memory passed through Alana’s guarded expression. Despite everything that had happened, a tinge of sadness and residual softness still remained.

Will gets to his feet. The room is empty. The lights are dimmed. He stands, alone, in the empty corridor. There is nothing else around him. The stag continues to pace, going out of view.

Jack wondered about the stag. 

Alana places a blanket over Will.

Will stands in that empty corridor. The lights go out, and the encroaching darkness washes over him. A bright flash of light. 

Will opens his eyes.

Alana’s voice filters through. She’s sitting at the edge of Abigail’s bed, reading softly. “He and the Grandmother discussed better times. The old lady said that, in her opinion, Europe was entirely to blame for the way that things were now. She said-”

Alana felt uncomfortable. She had read solely for Abigail.

She did not mind Will listening in, but in front of everyone else? Colleagues and - she glanced at Chilton, grimacing - acquaintances were not what she signed up for. The breach of privacy settled heavily in her stomach. 

Will watches quietly. He realises that he’s covered in a blanket.

“What are you reading?” He asks.

Alana turns. Glances down at the book guiltily. “Flannery O’Connor. When I was Abigail's age I was obsessed. I even tried to raise peacocks because she raised peacocks because she raised peacocks. But… they were really stupid birds.”

“About as bright as a domesticated turkey.” Jimmy nodded in agreement. ‘Which is to say, not at all.”

“Turkey slander.” Beverly muttered back. Zeller still sat between them, miserable, body rigid and gaze glued to the screen. 

Will pulls in the blanket closer around himself. “You could be reading to a killer.”

It was then that Alana realised that Will might not have been just referring to Abigail after all. 

“Innocent until guilty and all that.” Alana shifts. Then, “I'm about to broach the subject of that "Takes One to Know One" article.” She closes the book and turns to face him.

“Oh, that. Did Jack send you?”

“No. I sent me.” 

“I don't think we've ever been in a room alone together.” Will says frankly.

Hannibal appreciated the bluntness.

“I haven't noticed.” Alana lies smoothly. “Have we? Not that we're necessarily alone now.” She glances at Abigail, and smiles.

(Semantics)

“Yeah right.” Will pushes himself up. "Back to Jack Crawford's crime gimp.”

Jack winced. 

"It certainly creates an image. I don't need to talk about it if you don't.” Alana offers.

“No, no, we can talk about or not talk about whatever you want.” Will exhales. “Actually, I was- I was just enjoying listening to you read.” He gives a soft laugh.

Alana smiles back. She looks down. ‘Abigail Hobbs is a success for you.”

Will turned away, grief flowing over him like a tide. The wound was still too fresh in his mind. 

Will looks at Abigail’s motionless body on the bed. “She doesn't look like a success.”

“Don't feel sorry for yourself because you saved this girl's life.”  

(he loved and killed what he loved)

“I don't.” Will scrubs his hands over his face. “I don't feel sorry for myself at all. I feel, um.. I- I feel, um…  good.”

There’s a long pause as Will soaks in the admission, relishing it for himself, questioning it.  

Bedelia immediately understood what went unsaid. 

To save a life, Will had to take one. The scales tipped disproportionately; one entranced him the most over the other. The shedding of blood, or the act of saving it. Regardless. Blood stained his hands, as it did hers, and here they all were, suspended over the edge of a fall. 

 

***

 

The screen cuts to a close in on a tarry, black liquid. It’s unrippled surface is rocked a dollop of milk, causing a mushroom cloud of brown that dispels to the entire surface. The shot pulls back to reveal a cup of Freddie Lounds’s morning coffee, which she blows on to cool as she walks across the parking lot.

“That was so,” Jimmy said, “unnecessary. But also very fancy.” 

She glances up to see Detective Pascal sitting on her car.

“I don't know where you got half that information. Wasn't from me.” Pascal says. 

“I may have made some inferences.” Freddie replies. 

“They think I told you all of it.” 

It was easy to keep his face blank, Zeller reflected, when he already felt so disconnected. 

Freddie is unbothered. “They saw you talking to me.”

“They also think it's my fault Stammets escaped.” Pascal accuses.

“I'm sorry I got you fired.”

“I wasn't fired.” Pascal stands to his feet as Freddie gets closer. “I was suspended.”

“They're going to fire you, Jack Crawford will make sure of it.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, lips pressed tight.

“You-” Pascal chuckles bitterly. “You stir the hornet’s nest, and I’m the one who gets stung?”

Collateral, Will thought bitterly, arms crossed over his chest defensively.

“I can help you get work outside the force, if you want me to.” Freddie offers. “I know people in private security.”

Pascal stares in dawning realisation. “Not the first cop you got fired?” 

“Guarantee it pays better. Right now future You is thanking me-”

Behind Pascal, Eldon Stamments walks closer, the silenced pistol pointed in his hands. A sharp shot, Pascal drops and Freddie flinches as she is splattered with blood. She gasps, trembling in terror.

Zeller flinched at the sound of the shot, the expression on his face a deer in the headlights. 

“I read your article.” Stammets says. “Tell me about Will Graham.”

 

***

 

Outside the motel has been converted into a crime scene. Pascal’s body is wheeled away.

“Jack?” Freddie calls.

Jack turns. “Miss Lounds?” He makes his way over. “Go ahead and stand down, officer. Miss Lounds, are you alright?”

“Where’s Will Graham?” Freddie asks.

“We have an eye witness to the murder.” Jack replies. “We don't need Will Graham.”

“That's not why I'm asking.” 

Will saw the flickering of fear in Lounds’ eyes. The way her gaze shifted like sand. 

Jack studies her for a moment, realising, then whirls around, yelling to a subordinate, “Someone find me Will Graham!” 

“Right away, sir.” The officer replies.

Jack turns back to Freddie. “This was about Will?” He asks urgently.

“He was talking about people sharing the same properties of a fungus.”

Chilton’s nose crinkled in knee-jerk disgust. He’d had enough of mushrooms to last a lifetime, thank you very much. Especially after all of… that .

“Stammets?”

“Thoughts leaping from brain to brain. They mutate. They evolve.”

“Well, what does he want with Will Graham?” Jack asks. 

“Someone who understands him. Graham was right. Stammets is looking for connections.”

Bedelia’s gaze drifted warily to Hannibal. 

Eldon Stammets was not the only one looking for connections. 

“What did you tell him?” Jack asks.

Freddie looks away.

“I need to know what you told Eldon Stammets about Will Graham.” Firmness creeps into his voice.

“I told him about the Hobbs girl.” Freddie admits.

Of course she did. Couldn’t resist stirring the hornet’s nest even more, Will reflected resentfully. 

“What did you tell him.” It is not a question.

“Everything. Everything. He wants to help Will Graham connect with Abigail Hobbs. He's going to bury her.”

 

***

 

Back at the hospital, Eldon Stammets emerges from a door. He strolls down the corridor, and into a room marked ‘staff only’. He returns wearing green scrubs and a lanyard with an identification over his neck. 

The elevator dings. Will Graham steps out. His phone rings, and he answers it.

“Hello?”

“Will, it’s Jack. Are you at the hospital?”

Despite knowing how things would play out, Beverly leaned forward in her seat, attention rapt. 

“Yes, I am.”

“Stammets knows about Abigail.”

Will’s expression falls. He jams his cell phone into his pocket and starts to pull out his gun. He turns the corridor and reaches Abigail’s room. He finds it empty. He backs out into the hallway, his mind racing, as he sprints to the nurse’s counter. “Where is she?” He demands. “Abigail Hobbs, the girl in 408. Where is she?”

Bedelia observed coolly. 

“They took her for tests.” The nurse replies.

“Who took her?” Will raises his voice. “Who took her?”

‘I- I don’t know.” The nurse stammers, but Will is already running for the stairs.

Jack knew that it was only Will’s quick thinking that saved the Hobbs girl. 

Eldon pushes the gurney carrying a comatose Abigail Hobbs. Will emerges from the other end of the corridor from the stairwell and spots Stammets.

“Hey!” Will shouts, raising the gun. Stammets tries to rush away, but Will fires and the bullet hits him in the shoulder. With a grunt, Stammets falls against the wall, gasping in pain. Will kicks away Stammet’s gun.

The gun had fit so easily in his palm, but it was only a means to an end; a tool, much like he himself had been. Using it was clinical - point, aim and fire. Distant, separated by proximity and consciousness. Once, that distance had been the only thing keeping him functional.

One hand reaching for Abigail protectively, as if to ensure himself that she’s there, Will points the gun at Stammets.

‘What were you going to do to her?” Will asks.

“We all evolved from mycelium.” Stammets tries to explain. “I’m only reintroducing her to the concept.”

“By burying her alive?” Will demands. 

His words echoed the protest in Alana’s mind. 

“The journalist said you understood me.” Stammets says desperately.

“I don't .”

“Oof.”

“Well, you would have. You would have.” Stammets’ face crumples. “If you walk through a field of mycelium, they know you're there, they know you are there .” There is a sudden image of the fungus being shown in stark detail. 

Will understood. Of course he did.

(Blotched mutations that thrived on dead things and lightless places; rot fit to eat. They know not of thoughts, of emotions, of conflict, only that insatiable urge to grow into a thousand grasping fingers breaching the carcass of the earth)

“Their spores reach for you when you walk by. I know who you're reaching for. I know. Abigail Hobbs. You should have let me plant her. You would have found her in a field where she was finally able to reach back.”

Hannibal’s voice cuts in over the image of Will staring at Stammets.

“When you shot Eldon Stammets... who was it that you saw?” 

The psychiatrist’s voice was still a sharp jolt to most of them in the room.

The background changes. They are now in Hannibal’s office. 

Will shakes his head. “I didn't see Hobbs.”

“Then it's not Hobbs' ghost that's haunting you, is it?” Hannibal points out. “It's the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

“Killing Hobbs felt just.” The memory flashes through Will’s mind.

But the consequences had not. 

“Which is why you're here.” Hannibal continues. “To prove that sprig of zest you feel is from saving Abigail, not from killing her dad. 

Will wondered if the truth made him a monster. Plenty of people would be quick to agree. 

“I didn't feel a sprig of zest when I shot Eldon Stammets.” Will counters.

“You didn't kill Eldon Stammets.” 

“I thought about killing him.” Will admits. “I'm still not entirely sure that wasn't my intention pulling the trigger.”

Jack exhaled at the admission. 

“If your intention was to kill him, it's because you understand why he did the things he did. It's beautiful in its own way. Giving voice to the unmentionable.” 

Defining madness. Thriving in it.

Will turns to face Hannibal. He huffs. “I should have stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.”

“A boat engine is a machine. A predictable problem, easy to solve. You fail, there's a paddle. Where was your paddle with Hobbs?” 

“You're supposed to be my paddle.” 

Alana gave them both a sideways glance. 

“I am.” They sit opposite each other. Hannibal’s eyes are a combination of warm and piercing. “It wasn't the act of killing Hobbs that got you down, was it? Did you really feel so bad because killing him felt so good?”

Will weighs that statement, finally shakily admitting to Hannibal. “I liked killing Hobbs.” 

Everyone had ugly edges. Will’s own was just uglier than most. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” 

Off Hannibal seizing the chance to play God himself.

“101 Red flags.” Jimmy quipped weakly.

Chapter 13: Gone Hunting

A canopy of trees. Shafts of light penetrate the branches and autumnal leaves, creating a moody surreality in the early morning mist. A serene tableau of natural beauty. Abigail and Garret Jacob Hobbs stand together.

Will stared into the eyes of ghosts, once so vividly alive, one who had haunted him for a very long time now, and the other fresh enough that he swallowed and still felt the phantom weight of flesh lodged within his throat.

Hobbs holds a pair of binoculars to his face. He lowers it and then passes to Abigail.

Abigail looks. 

There is a doe nearby. Previously munching leaves, it raises its head into frame. 

Bedelia mused whether it knew.

“Easy, Abigail. Be patient. Wait for the shot.” Hobbs murmurs, barely audible. Abigail unslings the rifle and raises it, her finger against the trigger. 

She tracks the doe through the scope, and fires. 

The tightness in Will's throat wrapped around like a noose.

I'm sorry, Abigail, his head bowed in defeat as pinpricks of guilt riddled him. I couldn't keep your secret buried with you.

The doe starts to dart into the forest. Hobbs looks on with the binoculars; Abigail fires again.  There is a thump in the distance. She lowers the rifle. Her father checks one last time with the binoculars. A grin splits Hobbs face, and he presses a quick kiss to his daughter’s forehead as he makes his way towards the kill. 

The expression on Abigail Hobb’s face is clear.

Jack's expression turned distant.

She is not as happy about the kill as her father. 

 

***

 

Their car pulls to the cabin. Climbing out of the pickup, they begin to untie the doe that is strapped to the front of the vehicle. “Ready? 3, 2, 1, go.” Hobbs says.

A close up of the doe's unmoving form, its eyes open and glassy. 

Like recognises like, and Will knew that look - the eyes of a carcass. Eyes that followed him out of the nightmares in the dead of night, peering back from the sockets of every crowd, eyes that watched and wept and fractured enough for every unsavoury thing from the inside to spill out.

Hobbs himself long since laid to rest, if only Will could stop seeing those flashes of pale, milky eyes.

“She was so pretty.” Abigail says.

“She is so pretty.” Garret Jacob Hobbs corrects. A hand strokes the creature’s fur.

“Aren’t deer supposed to be complex emotional creatures?” 

“Yeah.” He nods.

“I read they’re like the equivalent of a 4-year-old human being.” Abigail says.

“They’re smarter than a 4 year old.” Her father says.

The rest of the room was saturated in unease. Hard not to be set on edge, given the circumstances.

“They care about each other,” She says. “They care about their environment. They tread lightly through the underbrush because they don’t want to hurt plants."

(I know you as myself-

Hobbs studies his daughter.

“They are a lot like us.” He says. “And we’re going to honour every part of her. Her hide is going to be a beautiful rug, her leg bones we can carve into knives. None of her is going to go to waste.”

-but you, you don't. You don't know me.)

He holds out a knife to Abigail. “Just like we talked about.”

She takes it, and prepares herself.

“Start at the sternum, keep the blade pointed up.” Hobbs says. He grabs her hand. “Damage the organs, you ruin the meat.”

Hobb's voice was Hannibal's, their voices merging in his mind in overlap until it was impossible for Will to differentiate between them. The events of the past a stroboscopic painting of before and after, family portraits the frames warped and exhumed. He clung onto his own reality through a daze. 

Abigail is motionless for a split-second. She shakes it off.

There is a wet squelching noise. “I don’t know how I’m going to feel about eating her after all this.” She says.

They all felt a knee-jerk sense of nausea at those words.

Hobbs reaches out and grips his daughter, stopping her in her tracks. “Eating her is honouring her.” He says intently. “Otherwise, it’s- it’s just murder.” He presses another kiss to her forehead. The camera pans back to show Abigail’s blood-soaked hand, still holding the knife.

She turns back to continue her work on the doe carcass, with her father murmuring encouragement softly.

Her bare hand travels through the fur in an uneven motion. The view cuts to Garret Jacob Hobbs, but when it cuts back, it is no longer fur under Abigail’s hand but human hair.

Alana went still. 

The figure is pulled back to reveal Elise Nichols’s body.

Jack's eyes were knowing, if subdued, flashing with the weight of confirmation. 

Abigail jolts awake, the respirator mask over her mouth as she takes a sharp intake of breath. Disoriented, she stares at her hands and starts to rip off the tubes, flailing and gasping for air. The camera pulls back to show a final shot of Abigail Hobbs in her hospital bed, now fully awake.

 

***

 

It is in the early morning. Will Graham steps out onto his porch in boxers and a t-shirt, hair tousled from recently getting out of bed.

The scene was drenched bright; the colours made Will's head hurt. 

The dogs rush past him and towards the driveway and Will suddenly realises he’s not alone.

Alana Bloom leans over to greet the dogs, smiling, as they return the favour enthusiastically. 

“Morning.” She says, making her way closer.

Will missed his dogs. 

He missed having Alana look at him and not see the pity or grief flash in her eyes. Back when his life had some semblance of balance, where headaches and crime scenes and being forced to go for therapy had been his biggest problem. That sort of routine had familiarity attached. A steep price tag, perhaps, and yet.

The therapist in question still was Will's problem.

“I didn’t hear you drive up.”

“Hybrid.” Alana replies. “Good car for stalking.” 

Jimmy raised an eyebrow at that. 

“I’m compelled to go cover myself.” Will admits, and starts back towards the house. 

“I have brothers.”

“I’ll put on a robe just the same.” He replies. “Do you want a cup of coffee? And more immediately why are you here?”

“Yes. And Abigail Hobbs woke up.” 

This gets Will’s attention. He stops in his tracks and turns to face her. “Well, you know how to bury the lead.” He says at last.

“You want me to get you a cup of coffee?” Alana offers. 

Will's lips twitched faintly.

“No. I want to get my coat.”

“Let’s have a cup of coffee.” She insists. 

Will is on the verge of saying something, but resigns himself to keeping quiet.

 

***

 

The phone rings. Alana raises both her eyebrows, but says nothing. Will takes a deliberate sip from his mug as another buzz rings out from the device.

Jack eyed them both, but wisely opted not to say anything. 

“Is he going to keep calling?” Will asks finally.

“Jack wants you to go see her.” Alana admits. 

“And you don’t.” 

“Eventually. Jack thinks Abigail was an accomplice to her father’s crimes.” She glances away momentarily. “I don’t want to get in the middle of you and Jack, but if I can be helpful to you as a buffer…”

“I like you as a buffer.” Will says. “I also like the fact that you rattle Jack. He respects you too much to yell at you no matter how much he wants to.”

Alana smiles, sharp. “And I take advantage of that.”

Not as much as she should have, Alana thought bitterly.

Will turns the subject back to what he’s most concerned with. “Abigail Hobbs doesn’t have anyone.”

“You can’t be her everyone.” Alana replies. She lets that sink in for Will. Then, “When I said what I was going to say in my head, it sounded insulting, so I’m going to find another way to say it.” 

Will leans forward. “Say it the insulting way.” 

“Dogs keep a promise a person can’t.”

Beverly winced, still uncomfortable at the prospect of listening into conversations that had gone behind closed doors.

“I’m not collecting another stray.” He says.

“The first person Abigail talks to about what happened can’t be anyone who was there when it happened.” Alana explains. “So that means no Dr. Lecter, either.”

Will let out a breath that was barely audible as a scoff.

He wondered - and how well had that gone?

Will nods, agreeing with her. “Yeah. Much less the guy who killed Dad.” He is quiet for a while. “Jack is wrong about Abigail." 

“Let me reach out to her my own way.” Alana promises.

 

***

 

There is a camera shot of clouds flickering overhead a building. Porthaven Psychiatric Facility. Baltimore, Maryland. Alana Bloom walks down the corridor, struggling to hold onto several shopping bags that she is carrying. She enters the room.

Abigail Hobbs is sitting up in bed, reading a book. 

Chilton squinted at the cover, but couldn't make out the title.

“Hi.” Alana greets. “I’m Alana Bloom.” She places the shopping bags next to the bed.

“Are you a doctor?” Abigail asks.

“Not medicine. I’m a psychiatrist.” 

Abigail stares at her. "What do you specialise in?” 

“Among other things, family trauma.”

Well. That was certainly one way to put it.

“I asked the nurses if my parents were dead and they wouldn’t tell me. Said I had to wait for you.”

“I’m sorry you had to wait.” Alana says sincerely.  

Abigail shakes her head, expression crumpling with emotion that she does an admirable job fighting. “I know they’re dead.” She says.

Alana studies her.

Seeing the microexpressions that flashed across her own face certainly was an experience. Mirrors and reflections only did so much in the end, and now, Alana saw herself from beyond the trappings of her own physical viewpoint.

“Who buried them?” Abigail asks. 

“They haven’t been buried.”

“Don’t you think they should be?” She challenges.

“Your mother was cremated per the instructions in her living will.” Alana explains. 

An almost imperceptible scoff from Abigail at that as she takes a moment to let that sink in.

Will could almost taste the thoughts as if they were his own.

They burned the meat. She died unhonoured. 

Shaken, he wrenched himself back to the present. His breaths were shallow. Hannibal spared him a knowing glance and dissected Will under its scrutiny in one fell swoop.

And then, she asks, “My dad?”

“Your father is more complicated.” Alana says. 

“Because he was crazy?” 

“The nurses said you didn’t remember.” 

“I remember.” Abigail confesses, glancing away. She stares intently at the open book in her hands. “I just didn’t want to talk to them about it.”

The truth of it had always been a malleable thing. 

Suddenly, as if making a decision, “I want to sell the house. I guess it’s mine now. I can use the money for college, get an apartment.” 

Alana studies Abigail and her surprising practicality. Abigail realises this, and quickly changes the subject. Looking towards the shopping bags, she asks, “What are all those?”

“I brought you some clothes.” Alana says, following her gaze. “Thought a change would feel good. I guessed your size so anything you don’t want, keep the tags on. I’ll bring it back. And I brought you some music, too.”

“Your music?” Abigail asks.

Alana's own preferences in music mattered little in the grand scheme of things, but part of her had hoped that it would help.

“If there isn’t anything you like, I got a stack of iTunes gift cards. I’ve got a stack of gift cards. I don’t do well redeeming gift cards.”

Abigail forces a smile. “Probably says something about you.” 

“Probably does.” Alana agrees, still watching Abigail Hobbs intently.

 

***

 

Back to Jack Crawford’s office. Jack’s voice cuts over. “I have 7 families waiting, no, let me rephrase, demanding that we find whatever’s left of their daughters. Abigail Hobbs may be the only person who knows the truth."

The truth? There was nothing left to find.

The camera pans back to show Alana Bloom and Hannibal Lecter sitting opposite Jack.

“You can’t ask her right now, Jack.” Alana points out. “We have to create a safe place for her first or you won’t get any answers."

“I respect your sympathy for her, Doctor Bloom.” Jack says, firm. “One day I hope you’ll appreciate my lack of it."

"I don't." Alana said, a low rebuke. "Even now."

“You really think Abigail helped her father kill those girls?” Alana asks. 

“I think it is a possibility that needs to be ruled out. If Abigail didn’t help her father, then maybe she knows who did.”

To Alana, Hannibal asks, “How was she? When you saw her?”

“Surprisingly practical.” 

“Suspiciously practical?” Jack challenges.

“I would suggest she can be practical without being a murderer.” Hannibal says coolly.

Will clamped down on his lips without realising it until he tasted blood.

“I think she’s hiding something.” Alana says.

“It may simply be her trauma.” Hannibal counters.

“Yes.” Alana agrees. “Could also be more. She has a penchant for manipulation, withheld information to gain information. She demonstrated only enough emotions to prove she had them.”

Bedelia could almost picture the calculation that would have passed through Hannibal's mind at those words. 

“Beginning to appreciate my lack of sympathy?” Jack says pointedly.

Alana is silent.

Hannibal cuts in. “You said it may be more than trauma yet you question her involvement in the murders her father committed.” 

“What I’m questioning is her state of mind.” She clarifies. 

“I want Will Graham to talk to her.” Jack says.

Forgiveness was fluid. The past was set in stone. The currents of conflict, Will himself, empathy a double-edged blade. Resentment has never lived long with Will - not when it was possible for a tool to understand its own usefulness to the hands that wield it. 

Alana turns to stare at him, dismayed. “Jack. Not yet.” 

“You are not Will’s psychiatrist, Dr Bloom.” He says, unmoved. “Doctor Lecter is.” 

Close in on Hannibal’s expression.

Jack watched himself play right into Lecter's hands, and sat stiff.

A beat passes.

 

***

 

“Garret Jacob Hobbs,” Will Graham’s voice cuts in. The scene changes to show the lecture hall in the academy. The picture on the screen is that of Abigail and Garret Jacob Hobbs, looking into the frame of a camera; in an outdoor setting, a rifle resting loosely in Hobb’s grip.

Will vaguely remembered this, the memory buried rather thoroughly in light of everything else that had happened. 

“The Minnesota Shrike,” He continues, “abducted and murdered eight girls over an eight month period.” Click. Click. Click. The photos of the girls flash across the screen in rapid succession. “Each of them had the same hair colour. Same eye colour. Same age, same height, same weight as his daughter Abigail.”

The screen stops on a picture of Elise Nichols, previously alive and well.

“But there was a ninth victim who also fit Abigail Hobbs’ profile but Garret Jacob Hobbs didn’t murder her.”

Zeller fought the reflexive instinct to glance over at Lecter. 

Click. A picture of Cassie Boyle, impaled on the antlers of a severed stag head, her death still a grotesque work of art.

Will breathed, still affected with the knowledge that he carried a part of her, however unknowingly, from the moment he had opened that door and let Hannibal in. 

Will turns to face the screen. “The killer who did wanted us to know he wasn’t the Minnesota Shrike.”

Jack and Hannibal enter the room. Hannibal’s attention immediately goes to Will. 

Will’s voice continues to layer over the vivid image of Cassie Boyle pierced on antlers, intercut with that of Hannibal’s expression. “He is better than that. He is an intelligent psychopath. He is a sadist. He will never kill like this again. So how do we catch him?”

“Giving a lecture on Hobbs’ Copycat?” Hannibal murmurs, leaning slightly towards Jack. 

“Well,” Jack replies. “Need every mind on this we can get.” 

An almost amusing irony. Bedelia kept her thoughts close.

“This Copycat is an avid reader of Freddie Lounds and TattleCrime.com.” Will continues. “He had intimate knowledge of Garret Jacob Hobbs’ murders. Motives, patterns. Enough to recreate them and arguably elevate them. To art.” 

Hannibal is rapt.

Will studied that expression coolly. 

“How intimately did he know Garret Jacob Hobbs? Did he appreciate him from afar, or did he engage him? Did he ingratiate himself into Hobbs’ life? Did Hobbs know his Copycat as he knew him?”

Click. The screen changes to Louise Hobbs, throat sliced open.

Will leans against the desk. “Before Garret Jacob Hobbs murdered his wife and attempted to do the same to his daughter, he received an untraceable call. I believe the as-yet unidentified caller was our Copycat Killer.” 

Camera pushes in on Hannibal, silhouetted in the darkness, intrigue and pride curving his lip upwards. 

And that, Bedelia reflected knowingly, was a precise example of how far Hannibal's control began to slip around Will Graham.

Perhaps without him even realising it, and not until it was far too late. 

Chapter 14: Perception

Time passes in a flurry of shifting sky over a building. The words ‘Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, Baltimore, Maryland’ appear at the bottom of the screen.

Abigail is shown to be sitting upright, senses on alert. “So you’re not a doctor or a nurse or a psychiatrist?”

Freddie Lounds is revealed to be across from her. “I’m a journalist. I want to tell the truth. Your truth. Sometimes that involves some deception. But know this, I will never lie to you.”

Zeller scoffed, and residual bitterness still clung like clumps of grain within him. 

“Sounds like something a liar would say.” Abigail says.

Freddie takes this in. She changes tactics. “If you tell me what you know, I can help you fill in the blanks.”

(How convenient. Blanks and pliable truth.)

“How about you tell me what you know.” There’s calculation in Abigail’s eyes.

“Your dad was the Minnesota Shrike. Your mother wasn’t the first person your father killed. He killed 8 girls. 8 girls that looked-”

“Just like me.”

“Yes.” 

Will watched, and ached, as Abigail Hobbs reeled from the larger meaning of that.  

Abigail asks, “Why did they call him the Shrike?”

The Shrike, the Copycat.

Back when they were almost one and the same

“It’s a bird that impales its prey, harvests the organs to eat later.” Freddie says. “He was very sick.”

“Does that mean I’m sick, too?”

“You’ll be fighting that perception.” Freddie sits on the side of the bed. “Perception is the most important thing in your life right now.”

To see what you will. To want, without truth.

(For the doors of perception cleansed and without chinks nor cavern was dizzyingly infinite) 

“I don’t care what anyone thinks.” Abigail says quickly.

“You better start caring, Abigail. What you remember, what you tell everyone, is going to define the rest of your life. Let me help you."

Even if, Will thought distantly, that help always, always came down to the price of blood.

Abigail takes a breath. “How did they catch him?” 

“A man named Will Graham. Works for the FBI but isn’t FBI.” Just as Freddie says this, the hospital door opens. Will and Hannibal enter. “He catches insane men because he can think like them.” She turns to see them. “Because he is insane.”

Madness was the knife that cut. The sort of death that verged on love.

Will knew the stag, the flames. Fungi and angels and the elevation of a human symphony. Flies the halo around a man who made himself wings. 

Transcendence, to the insane.

“Would you excuse us please?” Will says. He turns to regard Abigail. “I’m Special Agent Will Graham.”

“By Special Agent, he means not really an Agent. He didn’t get past the screening process.” To Will, Freddie says. “Too unstable.”

Hannibal steps in. “I really must insist you leave the room.”

“If you want to talk-” She holds out a card, but Will snatches it without saying a word. Freddie doesn’t offer any more resistance as she finally leaves.

And exit Lounds, Zeller thought on cue.

Will takes off his glasses. “Abigail, this is Doctor Lecter. Do you remember us?”

“I remember you.” Abigail says, her voice catching. “You killed my dad.”

The words hang there a moment, a weighted memory. Will accepts it, subdued.

“You’ve been in bed for three weeks, Abigail.” Hannibal says. “Why don’t we have a walk?”

The scene cuts to show Abigail, walking weak-legged, and supported by Hannibal and Will on either side. The background is a glass structure filled with plants. 

Framed in the center of that screen was the wisp of a hope, born of his own painstaking construction and direction.

It was not lost on Hannibal, the delightful irony that was the glass that lay over their heads, imagination construing it a palm ready to bear down just as likely as it was to stand welded. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother.” Will says. “We did everything we could, but she was already gone.”

Abigail blinks rapidly, against the tears that sting her eyes. It doesn’t fall. “I know. I saw him kill her.” 

They help her into a seat. “He was loving right up to the second he wasn’t.” She says. “He kept telling me he was sorry and to just hold still. He was going to make it all go away.”

Will was familiar with that. Making it all go away. 

Drifting, drowning

(in the illusion of safety)

“There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail, but there’s nothing wrong with you.” Will tells her. She looks up at him. “You said he was loving. I believe it. That’s what you brought out in him.”

The mirrors that Hannibal had told him, once.

The worst of one's self. The best of others. All warped and twisted and just as every bit as ugly as the moment it learns to blur.

“It’s not all I brought out in him.” Her face crumples. “I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I? I’m worried about nightmares.”

“We’ll help you with the nightmares.” Hannibal says. 

Hannibal, Bedelia thought spitefully, was the nightmare.

Will sits on the bench. “There’s no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot. I worry about nightmares, too.” 

Jimmy found himself nodding in agreement weakly. He still remembered the stag - nightmarish as it was. And Hobbs, whose ghost they had literally all seen haunting Will.

He has Abigail’s attention. “So killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?” She asks.

Hannibal studies Will very carefully, interest equally piqued.

“Its-” Will says, “It’s the ugliest thing in the world.” 

Will exhaled, tasting the lie, tasting the truth. He did not want to untangle which was which.

Abigail takes Will’s words in for a brief moment. “I want to go home.”

 

***

 

Freddie Lounds leans on the hood of Hannibal’s midnight blue Bentley, waiting. She spots Hannibal and Will as they approach and quickly stands, almost respectfully. 

“Special Agent Graham, I never formally introduced myself.” She offers her hand to Will. “I’m Freddie Lounds.”

Will puts the glasses back on. He is unimpressed. “Trying to salvage this joke from the mouth of madness?”

Beverly could just feel Graham gearing up for a truly vicious verbal blow. 

“Please. Let me apologize for my behavior in there. It was sloppy and misguided. And hurtful.”

“Miss Lounds,” Hannibal says firmly. “Now is not the time.”

Freddie regards Will. “Look, you and I may have our own reasons for being here, but I also think we both genuinely care what happens to Abigail Hobbs.”

“You told her I was insane.” Will says flatly. 

Jack put the pieces together. And knew precisely what moment this had been. 

“I can un-do that.”

“You help Abigail see me as more than her father’s killer and I help you with online ad sales?”

"Well, when you put it like that-" Jimmy tried for a joke.

“I can un-do what I said.” Freddie says. “I can also make it a lot worse.” 

“Miss Lounds,” Will takes a step forward. “It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Jack was right.

Beverly's expression twitched into an unnamed emotion - one that closely resembled horrified amusement. 

Hard cut to Jack Crawford’s office. The computer screen is open to another TattleCrime article, Will’s face under a headline that reads ‘Another Shrike in the nest?’.

“It isn’t very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.” Jack quotes. Then, “You know what else isn’t very smart?”

The camera pans to reveal a silent Will sitting across from him, Hannibal and Alana on either side. 

"This feels like a PTA meeting gone wrong." Jimmy said. "Or the principal's office."

Zeller shushed him. 

Jack addresses Hannibal. “You were there with him, and you let those words come out of his mouth.”

Jimmy pictured it. The scenario his mind came up with was this - Lecter tackling Graham mid-sentence, crashing them both at Lounds' feet. Boom, crisis averted, Jack.

But the next day's headline?

Would be priceless.

“I trust Will to speak for himself.” Hannibal says.

Jack lets that sink in. “Evidently, you shouldn’t.”

“I’m just happy the story wasn’t about Abigail Hobbs.” Alana says.

Which, fair.

“Well, then it’s a victory.” Jack says flatly. He studies Will. “So Abigail Hobbs wants to go home. Let’s take Abigail Hobbs home."

“What Abigail wants and what she needs are two different things.” Alana says sharply. “Taking her out of a controlled environment would be reckless.” 

“You said she was practical.” 

“That could just mean she has a dissociative disorder.” Will says.

Like Graham himself, Frederick thought. 

Alana points out. “You take her home, she may experience intense emotions, respond aggressively. Or reenact some aspect of the traumatic event without even realizing it.”

With hindsight, she had been right. Alana just wished she had been firmer in her decision. 

“Where do you weigh in on this, Doctor?” Jack asks Hannibal. 

“Doctor Bloom is right, but there is a scenario where revisiting the trauma event could help Abigail heal and actually prevent denial."

Alana is visibly unhappy.

“Then we have a difference of opinion, therefore I’m choosing the opinion that best serves my agenda.” Jack says.

Alana's face on screen at that moment adequately captured most of their feelings.

He turns to Will. “I need to know if you’re right about the Copycat, Will.”

“We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for her when she goes home.” Alana cuts in.

Hannibal takes this in.

 

***

 

Nicholas Boyle sits at a table. 

Freddie Lounds sets a cup of coffee down in front of him. “Thanks again for meeting me. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.” 

(wind them up, and watch them go)

It was an echo of his words that kept on, repeating, stretching into the distant horizon of that future setting up with every passing scenes - same threads, same rhymes.

Nick sets the cup down from where he was preparing to drink. “Oh yeah, how would you know?”

“I’ve been writing about Garret Jacob Hobbs.” She says. “I’ve spoken to relatives of his other victims.”

“Hobbs is dead.” Nick says. “Deserved a lot worse. Him and his whole family.” 

“There must be some small comfort that justice was served.”

The picture that was forming was another puzzle piece clicking in Jack's head. All of it, a tapestry of untruths and deception. 

His anger is stoked. “Comfort? My sister was impaled on a severed stag head. Cut down the middle. He pulled her lungs out while she was still breathing. There’s no comfort in that.” 

Frederick still looked sick. Even more so, at that reminder.

“I’m sorry, I am, but you have to try not to remember her that way.” Freddie says.

Nick studies her. “What do you want from me?” 

Will's teeth were dry. In his mind were thoughts of pawns and prey. Bait and sacrificial lambs.

“I just thought you should know Abigail Hobbs came out of her coma.” She says.

Nick Boyle takes that in.

 

***

 

A car pulls up the driveway. The Hobbs residence comes into view. Hannibal is behind the wheel, Will next to him. 

All four doors open and Hannibal, Will, Alana and Abigail step out to consider the Hobbs home.

The camera pulls back to reveal the word ‘CANNIBALS’ scrawled in front of the house in graffiti style.

One letter, Zeller thought. Change one letter from that word, and perhaps they would not have been blind to the truth, of that monster slipped within their midst. It was a stupid, stupid coincidence. But it rhymed.

And didn't that fucking sting.

The expression on Abigail’s face is shattered; Hannibal standing behind her like a looming shadow.

 

***

 

Abigail’s gait is slow and stilted as she walks up the steps to the shell of her home. She stares at the faded rust-colored stain on the front step. A close-up shot of the gravel and dried blood.

“Is this where my mom died?” Abigail asks.

“Yes.” Will answers.

“I was sort of expecting a body outline in chalk or tape.”

“They only do that if you’re still alive and taken to the hospital before they finish the crime scene.”

The words wash over Abigail, she’s barely aware of it. Her eyes are fixed to the steps. “Goodbye, mom.”

Oh Abigail, Alana thought pained.

The front door opens to a darkened space. Abigail enters, with Will and Alana closely behind but there is a noticeable separation. Abigail lingers as she drifts through the carcass of her home picked clean, taking in the emptiness and the boxes of evidence left on the kitchen counter. The room has been thoroughly scrubbed and gone over by cleaners.

“If you ever want to go,” Alana offers, “You just have to say so and we’ll go.”

“Go where?” Abigail asks. “The hospital?”

“For now.”

Abigail steps to the fridge, touches the photos hung by fridge magnets. “They turned all the pictures around.”

(turned all the mirrors)

“Crime scene cleaners will do that.”

Abigail turns. “They did a really good job.” She glances down at the kitchen tile, now scrubbed clean, and asks, "Is that where all my blood was?”

“Yes.” Will says. 

Abigail studies him. “You do this a lot? Go places and think about killing?”

Was it, Abigail asks, Will echoes, all you could think about?

He takes in her words, then nods. “Too often.”

“So you pretended to be my dad?”

“And,” Will takes a step forward. “People like your dad.”

“What did it feel like? To be him.”

Hannibal watches intently as Will answers, “It feels like I’m talking to his shadow suspended on dust.”

There was an undercurrent of wrongness in almost every exchange concerning Will Graham, and Frederick was in equal measure alarmed and fascinated. Every sentence verged on dream-like and nonsensical - nothing sane people would ever say. Aloud.

Abigail raises her eyebrows, “No wonder you have nightmares.” She drifts to the kitchen sink, stares straight ahead into the curtains pulled close.

“The attacks on you and your mother were different.” Will says. “They were desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time.  Somebody told him we were coming.”

He has Abigail’s attention. “The man on the phone?”

The camera focuses on Hannibal.

Yeah, Jimmy winced. The camera shots were honestly not subtle.

Like, at all.

“It was a blocked call. Did you recognize his voice?”

“I had never heard it before.” Abigail tells him. A small, almost imperceptible glance at Hannibal.

Abigail had known.

Her eyes cast on the predator in the room. Will's attention rapt on the shadow it cast, yet so blind to the truth of things. 

“Was there anybody new in your father’s life?” Alana tries. “Someone you met or someone he talked about?”

Abigail looks down, as if in deep thought. She looks up when Will says, “Abigail, he may have been contacted by another killer. A copycat.”

“Someone who’s still out there?”

“Yeah.”

Something shifts in Abigail's eyes.

And Alana knew that Abigail had realized at that moment, that the nightmare was far from over.

 

***

 

They go through several boxes in the living room.

“Can you catch somebody’s crazy?” Abigail asks.

Alana crouches next to her. “Folie à deux.” 

“What?”

“It’s a French psychiatric term.” Alana explains. “Madness shared by two.”

Will Graham looks up, and into the eyes of Garrett Jacob Hobbs slumped against the kitchen counter. “ See here,” Hobbs rasps.

Alana's eyes snapped to Will. With a twinge, she wondered if it was her words that had triggered the hallucination.

Will startles but is drawn back to reality when Hannibal says, “One cannot be delusional if the belief in question is accepted as ordinary by others in that person’s culture or subculture.” 

He sets another box by Abigail’s side, and continues with a glance to Alana. “Or family.”

"Murder family values." Will mused humorlessly.

“My dad didn’t seem delusional.” Abigail says, going through the items from the boxes. “He was a perfectionist.”

“Your dad left hardly any evidence.” Will says.

“Is that why you let me come home? To find evidence?” 

“It was one of many considerations.” Hannibal confirms.

“Are we gonna reenact the crime?” Abigail asks. She sets down the items onto the box and turns to Will. “You be my dad,” - to Alana - “you be my mom” - and finally to Hannibal, “And you be the man on the phone.”

Hannibal reacts by a miniscule margin, but tellingly so. The background music is charged to a more dangerous note.  Abigail stares at him, steely and nonchalant. 

Jack is sober. Alana is grim.

Will watched the space where the stag had once stood, and imagines the floor scuffling beneath its hooves like loose earth. In the end, it is always the softest of needles that pierces the creature’s hide.

Alana steps in, “Abigail, we wanted you to come home to help you leave home behind.”

The moment passes as Hannibal walks away, Abigail withdraws her gaze and finally says, “You’re not going to find any of those girls, you know.”

“What makes you say that?” Will challenges.

“He would honor every part of them.” Abigail says. “He used to make plumbing putty out of elk’s bones. Whatever bones are left of those girls are probably holding pipes together.”

(nothing ever gone to waste)

“Where did he make this putty?” Hannibal asks.

“At the cabin. I can show you tomorrow.”

The door opens. “Abigail, there’s someone here.” Alana says, and they all turn to find a girl around Abigail’s age standing at the entrance. 

“Hey, Abigail.” Marissa says.

Notes:

Hey so

I'm so sorry it took so long to get this up. I couldn't access both the official Hannibal scripts plus the google drive with the episodes, so it took longer than expected. Managed to get a back-up, so the following chapters should be up faster. Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, it really kept me going <3

Scatterings of Memory should be updated within the next two weeks, I think. There's some bits I'm personally not satisfied with, but it's almost done.

Thank you all so much <3

Chapter 15: End of Potage

Abigail and Marissa walk the stream that runs like a scar through the yard. Marissa nods at Abigail’s bandaged neck. “So, uh, does that hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Abigail admits.

It was a sombre effect. Listening in on the conversation of two dead girls.

(those moments captured in time, like film on a color photograph, but empty after the ink leached)

They come to a stop. “Everybody on the block was on the news. And everyone at school.” Marissa tells her. “Such whores.”

“Did you talk to the news?” Abigail asks anxiously.

“No.” Marissa says pointedly. “No! My mom doesn't want me talking to you, much less the news."

“Since when do you listen to her?”

“Well,” Marissa says, "Clearly I don’t. I’m talking to you right now.” She stares ahead for a moment, before adding, “You know, everybody thinks you did it.”

“Do you think I did it?” 

Jack's own words came back to him, reaching through a fog of the past - about Abigail Hobb's penchant for manipulation. Not as innocent as everyone wanted to believe, he thought grimly.

And yet, what a hollow victory it was.

“I don’t think you’re the type.” Marissa tells her. “Then again, I didn’t think your father was the murder-suicide type. Although I guess the hunting could have been a clue.”

So was cleanliness, Bedelia thought. The same went for performance. 

Will sat, the breath of a ghost hot against the back of his neck. It could have been Abigail. It could have been the stag. Both bled at his hands, even as he carried their scars as monuments for them. Memory consumed by illness, but some echoes lingered. Like words against a gravestone, like the aftermath of a final breath. Like a spot of blood in between the cracks of tile that no scrubs or sponges could erase away. 

(were you more fisherman or hunter?)

The stag stalked him, the hunter in the dark. 

But the truth, that is far more simpler to digest. Another thing that he shared in common with Abigail, same as partaking of her ear lodged in his throat before his body had rejected it.

Abigail studies her. “Mine, or his?”

“Both, now that you mention it.”

The place where the lines blurred. A father's daughter - sharing the same bones, the same blood. 

Marissa faces Abigail, and clarifies. “I don’t think you did it.”

Nick Boyle comes over from behind the trees. “I do.” He says, angrily.

Both girls are startled.

“This is private property.” Abigail says. 

“You were the bait, right?” Nick challenges. “That’s how it worked? You lure them back to daddy for dinner? How’d you trap my sister? Did you chat her up?”

Will hears her voice so clearly in his head, I was the lure. 

“Hey,” Marissa says, “Piss off !” She picks up a rock and throws it at Nick.

Well, Zeller thought, that was one way to remove intruders.

He sidesteps to avoid it. “Did you help your old man cut out my sister’s lungs while she was still using-”

The second rock hits him across the face. It leaves a small gash as he stumbles, briefly silenced. When he looks up, it’s with rage in his eyes, but then he sees Hannibal and Will making their way towards them. He spits and turns away to leave, running in the opposite direction.

A timely intervention. If not for running into the clutches of something far worse, Bedelia reflected. 

Marissa and Abigail return back to the direction of the house. 

The shot changes to show the bright glare of the sun, then a woman making her way hurriedly towards the group.

“He said he was somebody’s brother.” Abigail says.

(somebody's daughter)

“Marissa.” The woman says, sounding out of breath. “Come home.”

“No.” Marissa says defiantly. 

“Come home.” Marissa’s mother crosses her arms, leaving no room for argument.

“Can you stop being such a bitch?” Marissa snaps. A pause, as Hannibal’s eyes flicker.

The deadbolt slid home. Jack knew it was the moment the girl's death was decided.

Then to Abigail, Marissa says, “See you later.”

“Bye.” Abigail says.

Will and Hannibal go to check the direction that Nick Boyle had come from. 

“He’s gone.” Will says, when they return. “You’ve never seen him before?”

“No.” Abigail says. 

With the benefit of hindsight, Jack understood her answer to be the truth. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel.” Will says. “We’ll go to the cabin tomorrow.”

As he says this, Hannibal comes to a stop, his feet next to a bloodied rock on the embankment near the stream. He inconspicuously kicks a few dead leaves to cover the stone.

Still that same one-stone-two-bird scenario, but the metaphor was a little more visually literal. 

“We should report this, yes?” Hannibal asks.

“Yes.”

Hannibal shares a look with Abigail, before following Will.

 

***

 

A time-lapse of the morning sky as it becomes night, presumably a shot of the hotel. Will lies down on the bed on his right side, his silhouette barely visible in the dark. An eerie moment of silence. 

Will barely said anything. Every shot of the camera peeled back his innermost perceptions, reaching into the fortress of his mind.

Every part of him laid out for the picking. 

(Made more palatable, for each own's taste)

He sees a dark-colored stag set at the centre of the forest, in the midst of yellow autumn leaves. Will Graham is suddenly holding the knife to Abigail’s throat, his voice barely a whisper, “I’m sorry, okay.”

It is guilt that plagued Alana. The catalyst for placing Will alone in the darkness, stumbling blind between one nightmare to the next. He found a lifeguard in the wrong hands - Hannibal's ones. She thought of Will, manic and gaunt and hollow in those last few days, bruised with nightmares and reality dissonating from him, and Alana- had watched him slip away.   

She feared for him. She was afraid of him. 

She had never wanted Will to get too close. Not to Abigail, and certainly not to Garett Jacob Hobbs. And Alana watched, tasting bitterness, as Will held the knife to Abigail's throat and prepared to draw.

Abigail is whimpering. The stag watches. 

The vivid color of reality as opposed to the canvas of a nightmare was not a kindness.

Will continues ragged, “This must all stop. Please. I’m gonna make it all go away.”

But that stream held no measure of comfort either. The crimson tide lapping at Will's waist. 

He pulls the knife, there is an arterial spray of blood. A horrible tone pierces the air as the black stag bolts.

Will startles awake at the drone of the alarm clock, gasping. He’s drenched in sweat. He shuts off the alarm, and tries to gather himself. For a moment, he sits on the bed, his head in his hands. He gets up, and peels off the wet t-shirt, shuffling to the curtains as he pulls it open to let in a burst of daylight into the darkened room.

(letting the light blister him)

 

***

 

The scene changes. Two local police cars lead the rental car down the driveway as they pull in front of the cabin. Once again, all four doors open and Hannibal, Will, Alana and Abigail step out of the car towards the cabin. A police officer pulls down the crime scene tape obstructing the door. He opens the door for them.

Abigail enters first, Will behind her. 

A flash of memory. A dead doe. Garret Jacob Hobbs. The sickly pallor of a dead girl’s face as the hair is wrenched backwards.

Will scarcely reacted.

He knew the shape of those dust-ridden echoes and familiar ghosts. Almost as much as he knew himself. 

“He cleaned everything.” Abigail says. Her gaze sweeps, on the window. “He said he was afraid of germs, but I guess he was just afraid of getting caught.”

“No one else ever came here with your dad.” Will says. “Except you.”

She shakes her head ‘no’. 

An unknowing lie.

Hannibal watches intently. Abigail says, “He made everything by himself. Glue, butter… He sold the pelts on eBay or in town. He made pillows. No parts when to waste. Otherwise it was murder.”

It was the repetition of her father's words. The horror that warred with rationale. Comfort was the bedtime story of a lie. Will watches as the revelation dawned on Abigail, giving voice to a terrible truth.

“He was feeding them to us.” She realises, turning to Will. “Wasn’t he.”

(yes)

No one responds immediately. Hannibal says reluctantly, “It’s very likely.”

The irony, Zeller thought, of the fucking situation.

Abigail takes this in. “Before he cut my throat, he told me he killed those girls so he wouldn’t have to kill me.”

He wondered, would Hobbs have even ever let her go? If he had gone undiscovered.

He doubted it.

Alana steps in, offering comfort in proximity. “You’re not responsible for anything your father did, Abigail."

“If he would have just killed me,” She says tearfully, “None of those other girls would be dead.”

“We don’t know that.” Alana points out. “Your father-”

Abigail flinches. A single drop of blood is on her forehead, rolling down her face like a bloodied tear.

(an anointment in blood)

She wipes it off with her fingertips and stares at it for a brief moment. Will looks up a beat faster, before Abigail follows. The ceiling is dark and wet with fresh blood, it clings thickly to the planks.

Will emerges on the second floor of the cabin. He makes his way close to something, his phone in his hands as he says, “I need ERT at the Hobbs Cabin.”

The camera reverses to reveal in full-view - a young woman stripped of clothes, impaled on a rack of antlers.

Alana's breath came too harsh. She saw, yet again, another instance of Hannibal's cruelty.

Thick streaks of blood run down her body. Will uses a cloth to raise her head - and that is the moment that Abigail runs up the stairs. She staggers back with a broken cry, her eyes going wide as she realises what has happened.

“Marissa!”

 

***

 

Alana stands with Abigail next to the police car. Jack Crawford exits one of the many cars, his face grim. He shares a look with Alana, who nods, before she continues to turn her focus back on reassuring Abigail. 

Inside the cabin, Will stands in front of the body, he himself also framed by the antlers at the very centre.

The second of the Copycat's works, and Beverly couldn't help but notice grimly that Will was positioned directly in front of the body, like the subject of a unsettling portrait. 

The antlers that sprouted like branches. The unsettling darkness of the cabin.

Hannibal stands to his side, barely visible in the darkness of the cabin. “Do you think she knew the guy down by the stream?” Will asks.

The first fragile thread of trust. Enough to confide his doubt about Abigail. 

“Somebody’s brother.” Hannibal says.

“Not somebody.” Will says. “Abigail said he asked if she helped her dad take his sister’s lungs while she was alive.”

“The young woman on the stag head.” 

“Cassie Boyle. Had a brother, Nicholas.” Will says. “But Garret Jacob Hobbs didn’t kill Cassie Boyle.”

Hannibal answers, “I know.”

Will turns to look at him. The psychiatrist finishes, “Garett Jacob Hobbs would have honoured every part of her.”

The look on Will's face. Beverly wondered if he was putting the pieces together, albeit on a subconscious level.

Jack interrupts, coming up front the stairs. “You brought Abigail Hobbs back to Minnesota to find out if she was involved in her father’s murders and another girl dies.”

Will ignores Jack’s frustration. With gloved hands and a flashlight, he checks Marissa’s mouth. “Yep, scraped his knuckle on her teeth. There’s foreign tissue-” Hannibal leans in very close to Will’s shoulder, apparently equally intent - “and what could be trace amounts of blood.”

“You said this Copycat was an intelligent psychopath, Will. That there would be no traceable motive, no pattern. He wouldn’t kill again this way. You said it.”

Jimmy thought, I mean, you also probably shared this insight with said murderer so-

Did it still count?

“I may have been wrong about that.” Will says, still facing the body.

“Yes,” Jack continues, “Because Garret Jacob Hobbs never struck his victims. Why would the Copycat do it?” 

The camera shifts to Hannibal’s face. He offers, “I think he was provoked.”

Jack scoffed noiselessly. The answer straight from the mouth of the very killer.

Then, “Nicholas Boyle murdered this girl and his own sister.”

Hannibal had offered a choice - an alternative for Will to accept. 

Jack asks, “With or without Abigail Hobbs?”

“Without.” It’s Will that answers.

Jack changes his line of questioning. “Well, do you think Abigail Hobbs knew Nicholas or Cassie Boyle?”

“No.” Will repeats.

And Will had picked up the threads, complicit in that influence.

Like a shark smelling a drop of blood, Jack stalks closer. “You don’t think she knew them… or don’t wanna think that she knew them?”

Will looks away from Jack, body language tilting towards Hannibal. “She said she didn’t know them.”

Jack sighs. “Dr Bloom says that Abigail has a penchant for, uh, manipulation. Is she manipulating you, Will?”

“Agent Crawford.” Hannibal says warningly. 

(positioning himself as the good counter from the bad)

Jack looks over Will like he’s not even there. “Look, he said he was wrong about the Copycat killer.” He sharpens his focus back to Will, “I want to know what else he’s wrong about.”

“Whoever killed the girl on the field killed this girl,” Will says, turning to Jack. “I’m right about that.” The camera focuses on Hannibal’s face, then as he treads with slow steps around Will. “He knew exactly how to mount the body. Wound patterns are almost identical to Cassie Boyle. Same design, the same… humiliation.”

Same design, from the same mind.

Will's insight carving true the warped truth - binding Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schurr's killer as one. 

“Abigail Hobbs is not a killer.” Hannibal says, “But she could be the target of one.”

Jack slowly agrees. “I think it’s time Abigail Hobbs left home permanently. Doctor, would you be good enough to collect Abigail and all of her belongings and escort her out of Minnesota, please?”

The split second of Abigail's panic as his own - a caged moth in Will's chest. He thinks, heart pounding, I can never go home.

Hannibal’s eyes flicker from Will to Jack. Then he turns and leaves. Will starts to follow him, but Jack blocks him. “Not you, Will. I want you here.”

Cut off from Will staring into the camera. 

 

***

 

The lights of the rental car glare in the darkness of night. Hannibal drives towards Abigail’s home, Alana Bloom in the passenger seat. The police officers part and allow them to pass through unobstructed, quickly reforming the barrier to keep the circus of clamoring reporters and news vans and curious people at bay.

The media circus, Bedelia thought distastefully.

Abigail, Alana and Hannibal get out of the car. Alana guides her gently, an arm on her shoulder. Abigail looks back, just as Marissa’s mother pushes her way past the police officer and heads for them. 

“You killed my daughter!” She chokes, distraught.

Abigail turns and moves towards her friend’s mother. “Abigail,” Alana tries to hold her back. Hannibal moves in a full-body embrace to hold Marissa’s mother back, pulling her back.

There was something distinctly chilling about that - watching that poor woman in the arms of her daughter's killer. Alana felt more vacant than ever.

“Why did you come back here?” Marissa’s mother sobs, wracked with grief, “Why did you come back?”

She sobs into Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Stay here.” Alana tells Abigail, repeats. “Stay here.”

Abigail helplessly watches the scene as Hannibal comforts Marissa’s mother, and then as Alana leads the woman to the police officer to ease back to the police line.

“Abigail.” Freddie Lounds calls out.

All of their faces on-screen adequately captured the reaction to Freddie Lound's intrusion.

“Miss Lounds.” Hannibal says, then points out, “You’re on the wrong side of the police line.”

“I’ve been covering the Minnesota Shrike long before you got involved.” The police officer takes Lounds by the arm and then pulls her away, but not before she tells Abigail, “I wanna help you tell your story. You need me now more than ever.”

“I wanna talk to her.” Abigail says.

“No, you don’t.” Alana replies grimly, then pulls her towards the house. “Go inside.”

What other outcome would there have been, Hannibal mused, leading a hunter to its den.

The camera follows Hannibal as he walks behind Freddie and the police office. “I’m not the only one lurking about the Hobbs house peeking in windows.” She says. To the officer, “You really should monitor those police lines more carefully.”

Hannibal stops the police officer. Now free, Freddie turns to regard him.

“Have you seen a young man?” Hannibal questions, “Mid-20s. Ginger hair? Unwashed.”

“I’ll tell you if I saw him if you tell me why it’s important.” Freddie says instead, sensing an opportunity.

Will wondered what would have happened if he had never stayed back in the cabin. The sequence of events crystallizing in his mind, and he was an audience to the performance of puppet strings. 

The view changes - the unsteady motion of the camera looking through a barred window. It sees stacked boxes and the silhouette of Abigail inside.

Back to Lounds and Hannibal and Alana. They are still outside.

The scene changes again. Abigail sits on the couch, crying quietly, emotionally exhausted. She clutches a visibly handmade pillow to her stomach, needing something to hold. Then it dawns on her. She hears her father’s voice - none of it is gone to waste.

Memory cannot never drowned, especially within the walls.

She scrambles, reaching for the boxes on the table. She pulls out a hunting knife, then begins to pull at the fabric of the pillow, ripping it at the seams. She tears it open, and pulls out the stuffing - it’s a thick wad of human hair. She lets out a low cry, breathing raggedly, as she continues to pull out more clumps of hair.

(falling like scales from tearful eyes)

Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, filling her head with a rhythmic, oppressive tone. She's trembling.

She’s still gripping the hair.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Nicholas Boyle comes into view.

Abigail instinctively looks up. Fear floods her face, her mouth opening in a panicked wheeze.

Oh, Alana thought distantly, understanding all at once.

So that was what had happened to Nicholas Boyle.

“Okay?” Nicholas says, shakily, “I just want you to listen to me. I didn’t kill that girl, okay? I- I didn’t kill her-”

His words had claimed one thing, his subsequent actions however implied otherwise.

Abigail bolts from the sofa.

Nicholas runs after her and grabs her before she can reach the door. He spins her around and forces her against the wall. Abigail jolts forward, and Nicholas stares down at the knife in his sternum. Abigail realises what she has done a moment too late. He looks back up, gaze glassy-eyed, then falls to the ground with a thump.

"Self-defense." Alana murmured, and the look in her eyes challenged anyone else to say otherwise. "It was an accident."

Abigail is panting, breathing heavily.

Alana calls, “Abigail?” 

The door closes behind Hannibal. He sees Abigail first, her hands bloody, then makes his move.

(then how could a dead man have attacked her-)

Hannibal slams the side of Alana’s head against the wall in one move. Alana is instantly knocked out, collapsing in Hannibal’s arms as he gently lies her on the ground. Abigail looks up from where she is walking towards them, going still as she sees Hannibal rearrange Alana on the floor. 

Alana really hadn't known Hannibal, in the end. It was like having the ground pulled out from beneath her feet and having to walk the rest of the miles without any clutch for balance. Because what she saw was no longer just allusion, no longer the passive player. The brutality and speed at which he'd moved.

(a contrast of dismissal and care)

“She’ll be alright.” Hannibal says. 

Like a ghost, Abigail climbs the last set of stairs. Her eyes are fixed on Alana, her breath unsteady, getting worse.

what do you see?

“Abigail?”

Her gaze snaps to Hannibal. He says, “Show me what happened.”

Abigail leads Hannibal downstairs. 

Nicholas Boyle lies unmoving on the ground, eyes unseeing, a thick heavy pool of blood around him. “He was going to kill me.” Abigail says.

“Was he?’ Hannibal challenges. He leans down, and makes as if he is examining the body. “This isn’t self-defense, Abigail.” He says coolly. “You butchered him.”

She saw Jack's expression tighten.

“I didn’t…”

“They will see what you did and they’ll see you as an accessory to the crimes of your father.”

Abigail shakes her head blankly. “I wasn’t.”

The accusations rained, and every word stirred outrage inside of Alana. 

Hannibal lays the offer on the table. “I can help you, if you ask me to. At great risk to my career and my life. You have a choice. You can tell them you were defending yourself when you gutted this man… or we can hide the body.”

Bedelia knew that the Hobbs girl had realized the same thing that she had.

That to enter a pact with Hannibal was to make herself interesting. And in that intrigue, enough to preserve her life for the time being. 

Off Abigail, her mind spinning.

Cut to black.

 

***

 

The camera finds Alana in the back of an ambulance, the side of her head bandaged. Will sits down on the vehicle floor; Jack stands just outside the doors. “No, I didn’t remember anything.” Alana says. “Maybe a blur out of the corner of my eye, and… and a big fat cut to black.”

And that's a wrap, Jack thought grimly. 

“Nicholas Boyle attacked Abigail, you.” Jack says. “Struck Dr Lecter in the back of the head.”

He himself unknowingly parroting a rehearsed story.

“Well, where’s Abigail?” Alana asks, concerned.

“Lecter took her back to the hotel.” Will answers.

“She scratched Nicholas Boyle on his way out the back door.” Jack adds. “The blood on her hands matches the tissue that we pulled from Marissa Schuur’s mouth.”

(all the pieces aligned perfectly in place)

“And then what, he- he got away?” 

“We’ll catch him one way or another.” Jack reassures her.

"Easy enough," Jimmy said, a vastly innapropriate quip, "The guy's not going anywhere any time soon."

Will gets to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Jack asks.

“I wanna go home.” Will says, and leaves. 

Jack did still wonder. Had that been more Abigail's words, or Will's?

Jack watches him go.

 

***

 

Hannibal is at his desk, quietly writing something in a notebook. The only light in the room is the lamp that illuminates his work. A creak from the floorboard. “Hello, Abigail.” He says, unsurprised.

Abigail’s voice, disembodied like a ghost. “How did you know it was me?”

Will caught a glimpse of something else he did not know. Another truth willfully blotted by blindfolds. 

“Hospital called.” He looks up from his work. “You climbed over the wall.” He says pointedly, then closes the notebook. “Where else were you to go? Home is no longer an option.”

The camera pulls back to reveal Abigail on the second-floor mezzanine. 

‘Come down from there.” Hannibal tells her.

Beverly did a double-take. It was distant, she wasn't sure if she was seeing things, but- the poster on the wall looked an awful lot like a row of ears arranged methodically in a black and white array.

A moment of stillness, where they observe each other. And then, Abigail does. She climbs down the ladder, taking Hannibal’s hand for balance as she steps of the last rungs onto the floor. Her breath is quivering audibly. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“You can’t anticipate your dreams.” Hannibal says. “Can’t block them, can’t repress.”

"Can't pretend." Will said bitterly.

“I didn’t honor any part of him so it’s just murder, isn’t it?”

Close enough with her father's actions, Jack thought, that she'd inherited his pathology. 

“Most would argue self-defense.”

“Then why not tell the truth?” 

“Most would argue.” Hannibal answers. “There would still be those who would say you were taking after your father."

Abigail looks at Hannibal. “You’re glad I killed him.”

Of course he was, Bedelia thought sharply.

“What would be the alternative? That he killed you?”

“I don’t know if he was going to.” Abigail counters.

“No,” Hannibal agrees. “You don’t.”

(an admittance)

“You’re the one who called the house.” Abigail accuses. “You talked to my dad before… what did you say to him?”

A direct confirmation - that Abigail had known after all.

“A simple conversation.” Hannibal allows. “Ascertaining if he was home for an interview.” Off Abigail’s look, he repeats her own words. “Then why not tell the truth?”

“I think you called my house as a serial killer.” Abigail says. “Just like my dad.”

Hearing the statement delivered so bluntly...

Hannibal doesn’t refute it. “I am nothing like your dad. I made a mistake. Something easily misconstrued, not unlike yourself.” Then, “I’ll keep your secret.”

Abigail is calm, almost victorious in her own eyes. “And I’ll keep yours.”

Bolts of fate slid home, and that very moment was the finality to a life long pact.

(till death do break)

Oh, Abigail. Playing with killers, because that was all she knew how to do.

“No more climbing walls, Abigail.” Hannibal says.

The unspoken promise - that there was no going back.

(so wear the sheep's skin. And hide your teeth)

The screen goes dark. 

Chapter 16: Family Values

The camera shows the view of the lights of a city at night. A caption at the bottom of the screen reads ‘Baltimore, Maryland’. A shot of the exterior of Hannibal Lecter’s office. Then it changes to reveal Will and Hannibal inside, positioned on two chairs angled towards each other. The gap between them has decreased.

Will now knew that his friendship with Hannibal had been malleable. Dividing lines, drawing boundaries in chalk. It ended with Will in a cage, in the crystallizations of his deepest and most primal fears. 

“Sometimes, at night, I leave the lights on in my little house,” Will admits, “and walk across the flat fields,” the view changes to illustrate this - a house in the distance, a light amidst the sea of darkness, “And when I look back, from a distance, the house is like a boat on the sea.”

There was something distinctly tragic in that statement and what it implied. Alana felt her heart break all over again. 

“It’s really the only time I feel safe.” Will says.

An admission of vulnerability, Bedelia mused, of safety, if only through distance. 

Hannibal leans forward. “You stood in the breathing silence of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ home. The very spaces he moved through. Tell me, Will… did they speak to you?”

A sudden shot of Will in the Hobbs’ house entering the doorway into the kitchen, hands shaking and covered in blood. Then back to reality.

The room was strangely devoid of sound, if only to Will’s ears. It was all too easy to recall. The shadow that Hobbs had occupied - that dark shape swarming with flies - peered from the face of mirrors with more clarity than his own reflection, once. 

“With noise and clarity.” Will confesses.

“You could sense his madness,” Hannibal says. “Like a bloodhound.”

Will had always known that Hannibal had his hands inside that metaphorical wound - that festering, ugly thing. He did not hesitate to press. And Will watched himself suffer through the pressure of every truth given voice, ugly words breathed life as it seeped through the cracks.

“I tried so hard to know Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

Cut to Abigail pleading in the kitchen, seen from Will’s point of view, as Garrett Jacob Hobbs holds the knife against her neck.

“To see him.”

Will breathed, a touch unsteadily. 

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs, FBI!” Will shouts, gun pointed, flashing back once more. Then the draw of the blade against skin, synchronous with the sound of gunshots fired by Will.

“Past the slides and vials, beyond the lines of the police reports-”

(beyond the imperfection, the superficial-)

Back to Will kneeling on the kitchen floor, his hands desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from Abigail’s neck, as she struggles, gasping. Will is shaking, almost convulsing as he chokes in time to the sounds of her fading breaths.

“Between the pixels of all those printed faces of sad, dead girls.” Will finishes. 

The juxtaposition remained brutal. 

He looks up to meet the gaze of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, slumped by the kitchen counter. “See…”

Will steadies himself by taking a breath.

Will had still been reeling, long after the clamor of Garrett Jacob Hobbs had died down. Jack remained a witness to the visceral effect it had on Will, and found himself unwillingly deferring to the words of a dead man spoken in the throes of madness.

(See? See…)

“How did you feel seeing Marissa Schurr, impaled in his antler room?”

The memory of a dead girl hung against the sprout of antlers.

Eternally cradled in death, the imprint of cooled flesh against tarnished wood-

“Guilty.” Will says. 

-and some part of him had amalgamated that responsibility, the work of Hannibal's hands..

“Because you couldn’t save her?”

“Because I felt like I killed her.”

Jack remained unnaturally still.

Back to Will in that room, staring into the face of that dead girl as he raises her head with a gloved hand.

“I got so close to him,” Will says, leaning forward to match, the words shaky and desperate and sharp, “Sometimes, I felt we were doing the same things at different times of day. Like I was eating or showering or sleeping at the same time he was.”

Was it Hobbs you were sensing, Alana wondered quietly, or the Copycat? 

A subconscious connection to Hannibal.

“Even after he was dead?” Hannibal questions, sharper.

Will thinks back to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, dead, the bullet wounds visible. “Yeah, even after he was dead.”

“Like… you were becoming him.”

The veneer of another unspoken conversation lurking beneath the first, Bedelia decided. Hannibal was as ever maddeningly curious about the depths of Will’s ability to connect. 

The flash of Will’s nightmare from before - him drawing the knife against Abigail’s neck while they stood in the stream.

“I know who I am.” Will tells him. “I’m not Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Dr Lecter.”

“I am myself.” Will says again, in resignation. “Smokes and mirrors and unravelling threads on a fabric suit.”

Hannibal studies him.

 

***

 

A sudden hard cut to a plate of writhing maggots and infested with houseflies.  

Chilton jolted, an expression of revulsion in his eyes.

Sprays of blood against a family portrait - a mother, father, and three children. More family photographs, stained. Camera pans back to reveal the scene of a grim family dinner.

The Turner family - mother, father, and two children - are pitched forward onto the table from gunshot wounds to their heads. Resultant poolings of dried blood read like inky shadows on the dining table. The dishes on the table are black and rotted, filled with insect larvae and squirming pale insects.

The echo of memory was no less effective in its counterpart in the emotions that the grim sight evoked. 

Close in on Will Graham.

He shuts his eyes. The light against the side of his face changes, from its dimmed state into a golden yellow filter. 

A pendulum.

It swings in the darkness of Will Graham’s mind, keeping rhythm with his heart beat. 

Will’s eyes are closed. The pendulum is now outside of his head. It arcs in front of the grim family dinner, and that pale deathly pallor of those seated at the table become flush with colour. The pendulum arcs smoothly into frame - shooing the insects from the pot roast and meals. The tingling cacophony not unlike the orchestra of windchimes in the distance.

The deconstruction of that crime scene, usually an empty sight to all but Will, played out before them, every event a reversal. 

The pendulum swings across the table and the pool of blood on the table shrinks and recedes back towards their heads. The blood flies backwards, off the family portrait.

The pendulum swings in front of the table and the Turners begin to shift, blood receding, slowly sitting up one by one. An aromatic steam now rises from the roast as though it had been set down a moment before. 

There was a chilling aspect to that re-enactment. The Turner family sat stiff, as if pulled by strings, backs straight and posture fixed. Unblinking. 

Will Graham opens his eyes, sitting at the table watching the Turner family motionless in the tableau before their deaths. Will inhales, able to smell the homemade meal.

It was no longer Will in front of their eyes.  

“Table has been set.” Will says, a stranger in his skin. “Family dinner. I wasn’t invited.”

(But the lost boy sits at the head of the table anyway, where he belongs)

“I take my seat at the head of the table. My seat... my place setting, next to Mrs Turner. I am the guest of honour.”

Each member of the Turner family is upright but staring into the distance, unblinking.

“Nobody has taken a bite of their dinner.” Will says, then leans forward to point sternly at the youngest Turner child in front of him. “If you don’t eat your growing foods, you won’t get any dessert.”

The girl looks at him, then pops the broccoli on the tines of her fork into her mouth.

Will slams his hand down in a sudden outburst. “ No one leaves the table!”

The sound echoed through the room, as loud as a gunshot. They all startled.

“All afraid to move.” He continues as the camera closes in on his expression - like a child expressing his displeasure. “Even the little ones behave themselves. I brought my own… family to this home invasion, controlling the Turners with threats of violence.”

He stares dispassionately into the middle distance. “Threats that turned into actions.”

Three gunshots ring out in the dining room. His pupils dilate in sync to each one. 

(a bloom against a sea of white)

The sound of a woman weeping in the background. The camera pulls back to reveal the other three members face-down in their plates, growing pools of blood spreading from their heads. “The Turner family is executed simultaneously.”

The Turner family is now face-down in their plates, except for Mrs Turner - who stares directly at Will.

“With the exception of Mrs Turner. Who dies last.” Will says, looking her right in the eye. “This is my design.” He raises the gun. “I shoot Mrs Turner.”

The synchronicity of forgiveness alongside love, even as the unspeakable happens at the hands of a beloved.

The camera zooms in on Mrs Turner’s head. Bang. She rocks violently backwards, the blood spray hitting the photographs, then falls face first into the plate.

Camera cuts to show Jack Crawford in the dining room doorway, watching Will - who now wears rubber gloves and is no longer holding a gun, but his hand is still raised. His eyes are closed, reacting to a scene that none but him can see.

The return to reality was almost as jarring as the comedic implications of Jack’s expression in that scene.

Jack gives him a moment. “What do you see, Will?”

Will opens his eyes. “Family values.”

Ideals you try to take control of, Alana thinks, where it was once a lack.

“Whose family values?”

Off Will unable to answer that question.

 

***

 

A black car travels down the winding road. Wolf Trap, Virginia. It pulls up towards Will’s house. The door opens, and Hannibal steps out, a brown paper bag in his hands. Through the window, Will’s pack of dogs perk up in interest. They all go still in unison, heads turned to observe the psychiatrist’s presence outside. Hannibal observes them, pausing for a moment.

Will watched Hannibal assess the situation.

He pulls out a link of sausages from the bag. Dinner time.

Both Alana and Will’s faces were drained of colour, as the dogs were presumably fed human meat.

Stepping in, he drops pieces mid-air for the dogs to catch. The dogs now occupied, he takes the opportunity to explore the house. There is a piano in the corner, next to the cluttered bookshelves. He plays a few keys experimentally - the strain of a song apparently familiar to him.

Jack recognised it immediately as the opening notes to The Rite of Spring. Morbidly apt, if a little heavy-handed. 

“You play the piano, Will?” Beverly asked, surprised.

“No. It came with the house.” Will said.

Close in on a motor boat. Unceremoniously displayed in a partially disassembled state. His interest lies elsewhere. 

A drawer glides open. Hannibal inspects a pile of old t-shirts, looking for clues to Will’s past - instead, he only finds white t-shirts, a dozen of them neatly folded. 

It was deeply creepy watching Hannibal go through Will’s house. There was some peculiar aloofness in the manner he calmly satiated his curiosity. Even the privacy of Will’s clothes drawer had not spared.

He pushes it close. His attention is then caught on the desk - there he finds a large magnifying lens over the start of a fishing hook. 

The pieces fell into place. The fishing hooks tying Will to the murders. 

He peers through the glass, then takes a seat at the station. He admires Will’s handiwork - such delicate lures for catching fish. Hannibal applies himself to tying off the incomplete fishing fly, expertly using the tools of Will’s hobby - thread, bobbin, scissors, pliers. 

His surgeon’s precision in play, Hannibal finished the lure with little complication.

Will laughs bitterly. “I thought I was losing my mind.” Ignoring the depths of that statement. “When I came home, and couldn’t remember finishing it.”

Patches of memory during that era of his life, a fog. But this had been largely before the encephalitis had truly set in. 

Having completed his work, Hannibal admires the fly and hook. He takes it off the stand, and presses his thumb gently against the pointed barb, and keeps the pressure on until he draws a drop of blood. 

Inexplicably, Beverly was reminded once again of fairy tales. It was a weird association for her brain to draw - a spindle, a pricked finger.

Bedelia knew the irony was that, even before the game had begun, Hannibal had lost. He had already hooked himself. That attachment to Will encapsulating the shape of his downfall - the bleeding hints of emotions she had seen the sliver of during their sessions now beyond his control. 

Blood wells up. He tastes the lone drop of blood from the tip of his thumb. The sound is not unlike a quick kiss.

The unease was almost palpable. Unsettling in a way that seemed to perpetuate the fresh alarm.

Cut to black.

 

***

 

The camera cuts back to the blood-stained photograph of the Turner family.

The scene of the blood pricked on Hannibal’s thumb changed to that of the spray on family photos. It told a story, Chilton decided, on its own. 

“Alright,” Jack says, “Karen and Roger Turner, childhood sweethearts. Owned a successful real estate business. Pillars of the community. Three children.”

In the background, the flash of a camera as Jimmy Price stands, photographing the dinner table of death.

“Minus one.” Will says.

“Jesse Turner.” Zeller recalled. 

“Uh, a son.” Jack answers as he continues to move around the room. “Jesse. Disappeared last year. Last confirmed sighting had him boarding an RV at a rest stop on Route 47. Possible runaway, probable abduction.”

Will holds and studies the photograph of the boy. “Or both.” 

“When misery rains, it pours.”

The sentiment was counter to the smiling faces in the pictures.

“False faces in family portraits.” Will says. “Layers and layers of lies betrayed by… a sad glint in a child’s eyes.”

His words gave away far more than he intended to.

Jimmy leans for any photograph and comments, “Norman Rockwell with a bullet.”

“Alright,” Jack asks, “Any signs of forced entry?”

“No broken windows or torn screens.” Beverly says. “It’s all sealed up tight.”

“Yeah,” He agrees, “They probably rang the front door.”

“I got bullet holes on the upper sections of the wall, and again over here,” she offers, gesturing to the area.

“Okay. Pull the slugs for ballistics.”

“If they aren’t frangible, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The discussion over the facts of the case were an overlay with the memories. It was, as always, startlingly accurate - word-for-word as far as they could remember. 

Will is looking at a different picture in particular: a much younger version of the missing boy. The photo is of six-year old Jesse Turner, holding a stuffed octopus to the camera, one of its dangling arms in his mouth. His mother is pressing a kiss to his brow as he smiles sweetly. 

“They’re sometimes called the Mother Teresa of the sea.” Jimmy says. When Jack turned an inquisitive gaze on him, he clarified, “The octopus. To some, it symbolises selflessness and self-sacrifice.”

“Which,” he continued thoughtfully, “now that I say it aloud, is eerily relevant to the case.”

“Please.” Zeller says. “Do not start on that train of thought. I do not want to contemplate if we are all merely props on a show.”

“Fiction and fact are, in many cases, closely entwined.” Beverly points. 

Zeller continues in the background, “Those elevated termination points match what I see on these bodies. Angular cranial impacts, coupled with acute exit wounds, conical spray. Shooter went low to high. Probably crouching.”

This odd information strikes a chord of epiphany for Will. “When was Jesse abducted?”

“Uh, a little over a year ago.”

His gaze stays on the photograph in his hands - on the mother and the son.

A shard of childhood yearning, that - just for a minute - had pierced him. 

 

***

 

The sprawling grounds of an elegant, self-funded psychiatric hospital. The chyron reads Port Haven Psychiatric Facility - Baltimore, Maryland. Abigail Hobbs gazes into the mirror. The bandages on her neck have been removed, showing the fresh, angry scars. She runs her fingers across the wound almost in a trance.

An irrevocable mark. 

She ties a scarf around her neck to conceal the sight from the world.

“I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf to pass.”

The camera cuts to show her and Alana walking in the gardens of the facility.

Another conversation that Alana would have preferred to remain private. It went against every fibre of her being. 

“Hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here.” Alana tells her. “Sharing will help normalise.”

“I’m not normal. Not anymore.”

“What happened to you isn’t normal.” Alana acknowledges.

“Some of these women aren’t even sharing.” Abigail says. “They speak in little girl voices, telling everyone what was done to them without saying a word about it.”

“Certain traumas can arrest vocal development.” Alana replies. “And victims can sometimes broadcast victimhood involuntarily.”

“Not me.” 

Abigail’s fight against being a victim was another aspect that Alana had prodded thoughtfully as she had tried to ascertain the best way to help her recover. 

Alana turns to face her. “Well, that’s not necessarily true. Your victimhood has a high profile.”

“I’m a celebrity victim.” Abigail says wryly. Then, “Someone here asked me if I kept my stained clothes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Like I wanted to go home. But I don’t have a home anymore, do I?”

In that house on the bluff overlooking the cliff side, Hannibal had encouraged Abigail to find a home. He had given her everything she needed to thrive.

“You will.” Alana promises. “You will. I’ll help you find it.” She lets that sink in. “Abigail, I’d like you to give the support groups another chance.”

“Support groups are sucking the life out of me.” Abigail complains.

“Well, isolation can suck just as much. You have to find someone to relate to in this experience.”

A beat.

Then the camera cuts straight to Hannibal Lecter. 

Alana drew in a long breath, a substitute for the mirthless laugh that threatened to escape her throat. Cynically, she wondered if it was more to do with the messy projection of family by Hannibal, or the fact that the two had shared the experience of cannibalism. 

He’s in his office, writing in a patient’s notebook. He checks his watch.

He answers the door.

“Hi.” Alana says.

“Do you have an appointment?” Hannibal asks.

“Do you have a beer?” She counters.

Both their faces break out into an open smile. 

A memory once treasured, now sour in the pit of her gut. 

He steps aside and lets her in. A few moments later, she is sitting in one of the chairs. Hannibal is holding two glasses - one for her and the other for himself. 

“Interesting day with Abigail?” He asks.

They clink, beer glass to wine glass.

“Yeah, the grief work, trauma intervention… it’s all on course.”

Hannibal sits next to her.

There was a sense of normalcy that was jarring, especially compared to the previous scenes.

“I think she may be wrestling with a low-grade depression.” Alana confides.

“She?” He sounds sceptical.

“Nothing wrong with a little… self-medication, right, doctor?” 

Bedelia sympathised. Often her own interactions with Hannibal were greatly helped along by the presence of a particularly expensive drink.

Hannibal raises his glass, then takes a drink.

“Professional neutrality be damned.” She says. “It’s so hard to watch a bright young girl go so adrift.

“Perhaps it’s time Abigail’s released from clinical treatment.” He replies.

“Released where? Back into the wild?”

“Spending each day immersed in tragedy may be doing more harm than good. She should be out in the world finding her footing, giving her the confidence to move forward.”

With the advantage of hindsight, Alana could see the subtleties of his manipulations far more clearly - attempting to steer her towards the outcome he desired. 

“Abigail is in no condition to tackle real-world issues, like where she’s going to live?” Alana counters.

“I’m not suggesting abandonment.” Hannibal cuts in.

Jack had been so concerned about Will’s attachment to the girl, that he had missed the dangers of Hannibal’s own. 

“Hannibal, this is a girl who was very attached to her parents.” She says. “You stepping in as a surrogate would only be a crutch. I think Abigail needs to figure things out for herself in a safe, clinical environment and that will give her the confidence to move forward.”

It was advice that Hannibal had sorely needed to hear. Bedelia was appreciative of the fact it had been delivered so bluntly and to his face. 

Even if she suspected he was not about to heed it at all.

Seeing Alana isn’t about to budge, Hannibal bows his head. “I defer to the passion of my esteemed colleague. Passion’s good. Gets blood pumping.”

He raises his glass again. She raises hers back.

 

***

 

The scene changes to show the morgue. The corpses are presented on the slabs for inspection.

“I’m glad we didn’t have guns in my house.” Zeller says. “I would’ve shot my sisters just to get them out of the bathroom.”

“I liked having a big family.” Beverly admits.

“My parents gave me a gift. A twin.” Jimmy says. “Who wouldn’t want two of me?”

The banter flowed, a casual mention of familial structures and standards. 

Zeller turns to regard Will. “Let me guess - only child.”

“Why do you say that?” Will asks.

What went unasked - how did you know?

“‘Cause family friction is usually a catalyst for personality development.”

At that, the camera adequately captured Will’s expression on-screen.

An odd remark, but Beverly swoops in to take the sting away. “I was the oldest, so all the friction rolled down the hill.”

“Yes,” Jack says, “All the attention and responsibilities heaped on firstborn children prepares them for success in the future.”

“Truly.” Beverly said lightly but resigned. “I’m livin’ the life right now.”

“My baby sister got away with murder.” Beverly says. “She had ‘em all fooled.”

“I thought middle were the problems.” Jimmy argued.

Zeller says, “The middle is the sweet spot.”

“Always trying to figure out where they fit in.” Will says. Zeller turns to regard him.

Will walks past. “They can be great politicians.” Then, “Or lousy ones.”

Jimmy bit back the smile that was not at all hidden by his show-counterpart. 

 “All the victims have defensive wounds, except for Mrs Turner.” Jack observes. He is studying the crime scene photos as he looks over each of the bod

He hands Will the crime scene photos of Mrs Turner.

“There’s forgiveness.” Will realises that he missed something that Jack didn’t.

Proddingly, Jack asks, “What kind of victim forgives her killer at the moment of her death?”

Never taking his eyes off Jesse’s mother, Will finally answers. “A mother.”

The revelation of truth, a strange grief in his heart. 

To the bullet wound on Mrs Turner’s head. And then at Jack.

Cut to black.

Notes:

Ouef is such a narratively delicious episode, I think it's been one of my favorite ones to write-

Chapter 17: Construct

The camera cuts to a close-up of Hannibal’s face. “Tell me about your mother.” He asks.

The close-ups never failed to be disconcerting. Existential debate aside, Zeller wondered what the hell was going on with the all-seeing cameras. It alternated between trippy, artistic and stuck far too close to people’s faces.

Occasionally, all of the above at the same time. 

Then on Will. “Some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter. Low-hanging fruit.”

“I suspect that fruit is on a high branch.” Hannibal replies. “Very difficult to reach.”

“So is my mother.” Will makes an aborted head motion. “I never knew her.”

Will’s expression was a study in defensiveness and muted anger. He knew what was about to follow - more of his life revealed in bits and pieces, things he had never intended to share. Every last facsimile of dignity pulled away. The quid pro quo of Hannibal later offering minor truths about his own past wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been. 

“An interesting place to start.”

Will inhales deeply. “Tell me about your mother.” He says instead. “Let’s start there.”

If there was one thing Will Graham failed to realize, Bedelia mused, it was his penchant for reaching past Hannibal’s walls and pulling out things otherwise that were as difficult to extract as teeth.

Careful, Hannibal, she was bitter enough not to warn. His heel had shown. 

Hannibal does.

“Both my parents died when I was very young.” The psychiatrist says. “The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16.”

Jack filed this away mentally.

Will considers that. “You have orphan in common with Abigail Hobbs.”

A little hint of Hannibal’s motives. His reasonings, the metaphorical ground on where he stood. Will had accepted it readily as well as he knew himself. Only after the chase had ceased and the trap had been sprung, iron metal teeth clamping down on either side of him enough to draw blood, that he saw the manipulations for what it had been.

Steering the conversation. Navigating tumultuous waters with an expert hand.

(Vulnerable in that instance, only because somewhere in the dark recesses of his shaken mind, the lost boys cast long shadows against the grave of a barren childhood yearning)

“I think we’ll discover you and I have a great deal in common with Abigail.” Hannibal says. “She’s already demonstrated an aptitude for the psychological.”

In the aptitude of the manipulation for it, went unsaid.

Will glances away before returning his gaze. Unwilling to return that volley. “Something so foreign about family.” He admits. “Like an ill-fitting suit. I never connected to the concept.”

Beverly had suspected. This case would have been around the time that she’d started to notice the cracks more tangibly the longer they’d worked together. Setting him noticeably off-balance.

“You created a family for yourself.” Hannibal observes.

“Ah, well, I connected a family of strays.” Will deflects. “And thank you for feeding them while I was away.”

Hannibal nods in return. Then-

“I was referring to Abigail.” He says. 

Alana knew what Hannibal was doing. Letting Will get used to the idea, planting the seeds. The whisper of a treacherously warm voice in his ear, inhabiting his head. What end game he had hoped for, she did not want to contemplate for they all knew precisely how it had turned out. 

Abigail and Will, casualties of the manipulations he played to entertain himself.

A brief pause as this sinks in. Hannibal wrests control of the conversation back to something more familiar. Safer ground.

“Tell me about the Turner family.” He prompts. “Were they affluent? Well to do?”

“They lived like they had money.” Will says.

“Did your family have money, Will?”

“We were poor.” Will answers. “I followed my father from the boat yards of Biloxi and Greenville to, uh, lake boats on Erie.”

Echoes of the simpler comfort of childhood and familiarity. Alana was beginning to understand the reason for his fondness for fishing and boating. She hadn’t known earlier. It explained the space in his mind he retreated into, that stream, and all the safety it offered with every tug and ebb of warm water.

“Always the new boy at school? Always the stranger?”

“Always.” Will agrees, bittersweet.

He had never stopped being that stranger either. 

“What grudge was Mrs Turner’s killer harbouring against her?” Hannibal asks.

“Motherhood.”

“Not motherhood.” Hannibal corrects. “A perversion of it.”

That particular space was a void for Will. His was a lack thereof.

 

***

 

The close-up of food served on a white plate. A serving is ladled out, heaped delicately in an organized manner.

“A modified Bouidin Noir from Ali-Bab’s Gastronomie Pratique.” Hannibal explains.

Jimmy squinted. It seemed like a pretentious name for what was arranged on the plate, the blobs of food that looked unidentifiable. But hey, he wasn’t a fine-dining aficionado. And he also had enough, uh, self-preservation not to say that out loud.

Jack sits at the other end of the table. The atmosphere is shrouded in darkness, kept only at bay by the faint light of candlelight. The table decoration is varied with plates of food set out and curved animal horns.

Even the decoration was setting off a dozen alarms. It was a dramatic thought but at some point, it had crossed Chilton’s mind that he was looking at the closest thing to a dining table from hell. 

“You promised to deliver your wife to my dinner table.” Hannibal points out.

A miniscule jerk on Jack’s face at the implications. His teeth clenched. 

“Well,” Jack says, “We've going to have to polish up our act. We can’t have you diagnosing our marital problems all in one fell swoop.” He holds the spoon to his lips, and asks. “What am I about to put in my mouth?” 

“Rabbit.” Hannibal says easily.

“He should’ve hopped faster.” Jack quips.

Jack suddenly looked very ill.

Hannibal chuckles. “Yes. He should have.”

Hard cut to show a man in a red and black striped flannel shirt running desperately through the woods. He trips over a branch. The next shot is of a pan enveloped in fire, meat being sauteed over the stove, with Hannibal’s profile in his chef uniform in the periphery.

Like a man faced with the devil, Jack stared at Hannibal. In a professional capacity, they could collectively count the times either of them had seen Jack Crawford completely out of his depth on the fingers of one hand - this, at that exact moment, was one of those times. The revulsion won out. The anger stoked coals within his eyes, a beat too slow.

(No longer afforded the luxury of a faceless reality)

Back to the dinner table.

“But fortunately for us, he did not.” Hannibal adds.

Jack makes a sound of appreciation as he savours the rich food.

“Our friend Will,” Jack says at last, “Seems haunted today.”

Sounds about right, Will thought wearily. He could be self-aware.

“We don’t know what nightmares lie coiled beneath Will’s pillow.” Hannibal says.

Jack cuts to the heart of the matter. “Children killing other children is not that unfamiliar a notion to Will.”

“You still suspect Abigail Hobbs in her father’s crimes.”

“Perhaps, the nightmare under Will’s pillow is that he was wrong about her.”

The real nightmare, Jack thought viciously, was that they had been wrong about Lecter. Fool him once, and hell hath no fury like an agent scorned. The depths of the deception was dizzying, the ground yanked out and unsteady beneath his feet, but he locked in his knees and had no choice but to stand firm. 

He had been afraid that Will was not who he had believed him to be, that he was blinded to the truth staring smugly right at him the whole time and feeding him dinner.

“Children transport us to our childhoods.” Hannibal says. “Will may feel the tug of life before the FBI. Before you. Simpler times in boatyards with Dad. That life is an anchor streamed behind him in heavy weather. He needs an anchor, Jack.”

The idea of simpler times remained a distant dream to Will. He wondered what marked the point of no return.

Jack sighs. Accepting that.

 

***

 

Back to Will’s house at night. The porch door opens, and the dogs go bounding out well past the porch. Will holds the door open for all of them, before he too steps out. He joins them at the base of a tree, content in watching them play.

It was strange that what should have a moment of peace presented to the room could feel just as much as a quiet sorrow. Will tasted it, cold and rusted and fleeting, tinged with salt like the air of the sea fading in the horizon.

 

***

 

The blue skyline changes over the angle of a building.

Inside, Brian Zeller holds a flashlight over the woman’s corpse, the body bag peeled down to the neck.

“One pair of size-six sneakers from the Turner house.” Beverly calls out. “Tread on left indicates uneven leg length.”

“Is that unusual?” Jimmy asks.

Zeller was hyper-aware of his own body movements - which was still an unnerving sensation, by the way.

Zeller walks out of the morgue bay. “Not in a 12 year-old.” He answers. “Growth plates are all out of whack.” He unzips another body bag. “You’ve got one foot that’s bigger, one leg is longer. Puberty is in full effect.”

“How did Jesse Turner turn out?” Beverly questions. “No one’s seen him in over a year.”

“I’ve extrapolated the, uh, present height and weight from abduction stats.” Zeller explains. “Even with the usual growth spurt between eleven and twelve, he’d be four-and-a-half feet. Eighty pounds tops.”

The clinical dissection of the case did little to ever remove the horror for Alana. 

Jimmy holds up a video game controller at the same time that Jack enters. “God’s gift to trace analysts. Gorgeous fingerprints all over these things. No matches, but they're gorgeous.”

“Isolated 7 pairs of shoe prints,” Beverly reports. “Filtered out the Turners, including Jesses’s, so we’re down to three unsubs. Sneakers are a size 7, a 3-and-a-half and a boy’s 11.”

Zeller says, “The Lost Boys.”

The moniker was apt. There was only ever one way it would end, and that was in the disillusionment of that reality.

Jimmy stands up, studying the point comparisons of the fingerprint he just fed into the computer. “I think I found one of them.”

 

***

 

Will Graham stands in front of a classroom full of FBI Trainees, mid-lecture.

“Most of the time in sexual assaults,” Will explains, “The bite mark has a livid spot in the center, a suck bruise. In some cases, it does not. For some killers, biting may be a fighting pattern as much as sexual behaviour.” 

“Suck bruise?” Jimmy said. “You know, saying hickey would’ve worked too.”

Will stared blankly at him.

He tacked on quickly, “I mean, whatever works. Right?”

Jack Crawford walks in. “Okay, class dismissed.” He orders. “Everybody out.” Off their hesitation, he raises his voice. “What did I just say? Let’s go!”

It was irrational to still feel that flash of irritation whenever Jack inserted himself forcefully. Alana supposed that old habits died hard.

The FBI trainees gather their books and quickly exit.

Jack sits with his arms folded on Will’s desk, watching the class filter out.

“You’re making it difficult to provide an education, Jack.” Will observes.

Beverly fought off the echo of a grin, privately rooting at Will holding his own.

“We found a match for a set of prints pulled from the Turner house.” Jack replies. “And they belong to a 13 year old boy from Reston, Virginia. His name is Connor Frist.”

“Another kid?”

“Another missing kid.” Jack says. “He vanished 10 months ago. The case was never solved.”

“Until now.” Will said lowly.

“How many kids in the Frist family?” Will asks, stopping.

“Three, just like the Turner family.”

He lets that sink in.

“We’re ready when you are.” Jack stands again, turning to regard Will. “And you’re ready to go right now, so let’s go.”

Will watched himself follow Jack’s lead without protest.

Tugs and ebbs of the current. He missed that. At least he knew which way the stream flowed and did not have to fight against the unrelenting pull. 

“You’re expecting a crime scene.” Will says.

Jack doesn’t answer.

 

***

 

Festive christmas music plays as the view zooms in over the top of the second floor to the open living room. The decorations are up in full swing, lights decorating a colourfully illuminated tree that reaches to the high ceiling. Dozens of unopened presents are at the bottom of the pine. The Frist family - mother, father, two children - are gathered sound the tree in their pajamas and robes. All dead. And have been for some time.

Alana averted her eyes, troubled, but not quickly enough for the grotesque image to dissipate from her sight.

A close up on the father, slumped with eyes closed, a gunshot wound to the head.

Then the mother.

Then to a charred corpse in the fireplace.

The association had long since soured in Will’s gut. The contrast of the music, the silent carnage strewn about as discarded as the wrapping paper, the smell of rot and decay clogging his nostrils. Burnt skin flaking like a perversion of snow, bodies far too small. Not a very Holly Jolly Christmas, he thought grimly. It would cease to be, for a very long time. 

The door opens and the dark-clad agents pour in, with Jack and Will at the rear. The smell was evident, and they began to cough, covering their nostrils with the elbow. Will drops his arm, and there is a particular expression on his face.

 

***

 

Back to the morgue at Quantico. Katz, Zeller and Price are there, with Jack in between the metal gurneys that hold the bodies of the Frist mother and father. He looks on. The two children are a slight distance away. Will is sitting on the autopsy table. 

Once again, Bedelia noted Graham’s disregard for his surroundings. Too entrenched in his own mind to bother otherwise. It seemed more fascinating to her, the fact that Hannibal took this… quirk in stride so readily.

“Mr. Frist and the children killed first.” Jack said. “Mrs. Frist saved for last. Same as the Turner’s.”

“Not exactly the same.” Will says. “Something went wrong.”

Beverly adds, “Not a single present under the tree for Mrs. Frist.”

An act that was the disavowment of the role meant to be played.

“Took her presents, took her motherhood.”

“Shooting her once wasn’t enough.” Zeller continues. He uses his gloved hands to part Mrs. Frist's hair above the entry wound revealing dried, matted blood. “First bullet travels beneath her scalp to its final resting spot at the base of her neck.”

Will scratched at non-existant gunpowder residue trapped beneath his nails.

“But it still didn't kill her.” Jack says.

“Hydrostatic shock of shell hitting skull would’ve caused brain damage.” Beverly answers.

“Her body went into convulsions.”

“Shot her again to put her out of her misery. Different gun.”

An act of cruelty, he thought, touted as mercy. 

“So someone else shot Connor’s mom.” Jimmy realizes.

“So who is our additional corpse in the fireplace?” Jack poses the question. He pulls back the covering over the small burnt body.

Without looking, Will replies, “I’d say Connor Frist.” He’s got the rest of their attention. “He’d been prepped to shoot his mother, not watch her suffer.”

The stitched pieces of his own remembered childhood, no matter how incomplete, at least knew that much to be true.

“Connor couldn’t put his panic back in the bottle, so he got shot too.” Jack says.

“Whoever shot him…” Will echoes. “Disowned him.”

The sharp rebuke of rejection remained nestled against his heart, an acute pain as he drew breath.

 

***

 

The scene changes to a diner. A woman - Eva - sits at the booth with four boys, each of whom are drinking a milkshake. She seems distant and distracted. The eldest boy, identified as C.J. Lincoln, says, “Don’t be sad about Connor.”

This was a new angle on the case - an unfettered glimpse into the dynamics of that Frankenstein family.

“I guess I couldn’t make him understand.” She says, and then turns to Jesse Turner next to her. “The family you’re born into isn’t really family. Those are just people you didn’t choose. You have to make family. That’s what we’re doing. We’re making our family.”

Hannibal met the unspoken challenge in Bedelia’s gaze from across the room. She prodded at him pityingly, are you making a family? Is that what this is, Hannibal?

Chris O’Halloran works up the courage to ask, “What happened to your family?”

C.J. Lincoln answers warningly, “We’re her family.”

Chris plays with the milkshake glass with a finger nervously, looking down. “I meant, your other family.”

Beyond the sunlight-lit chapel and catacombs, there was a field of snow that was as cold as the bitterest winter, as chillingly white as fragments of broth-stained bones. The tang of metal that he drank and consumed him in turn, the nascent bite of ice, clasped iron and the inflicted wound of all that he had lost. None would ever know the depths of the thoughts that ran rampant behind the shadow of his gaze.

“The family you think is family is just a stepping stone to real family.” Eva says intently. Then, concern leaking in her voice, “Are you feeling okay, sweetie pie?”

“He’s fine .” The elder boy says forcefully. 

It was obvious in the boy - that hint of envy and scorn that could so easily turn to violent resolve, given the situation. 

“C.J.” Eva reprimands. 

He looks away. She pulls her milkshake closer towards her. “You should be excited to go home.” Eva tells Chris. “Even if it is to say goodbye because we’re your family now, Christopher. You can only have one family.” She holds his gaze, and smiles.

It was a downright chilling set of events, watching the wistful imagining of a twisted dream play out. It left in its wake a very wide berth of death and destruction. A scar of consequence that can never again be undone.

 

***

 

Will is sitting alone in the lecture hall back at the academy. He has his laptop out in front of him. The door opens and Beverly enters. He doesn’t look up. She’s carrying a coffee cup as she lingers by the entrance, observing him. “Ever heard of Willard Wigan?” She calls, coming closer. She sets the cup on the desk. “He’s this artist who does micro sculptures, like putting the Obamas in the eye of a needle.”

“Willard Wigan.” Beverly repeated, raising her eyebrow meaningfully at Will. “Get it now?”

He took a moment, and then- “Oh. Right.”

Will is still distracted.

She raises the volume of her voice. “He’s so focused that he can work between beats of his heart. I guess archers do the same thing, right?”

Zeller exchanged a look, the sentiment on his face similar along the lines of well, what did you expect?

She walks around, nearer to him so she can see the screen. Will makes a non-committal hum in response. “What are you looking at?” She asks.

It’s the first time Will acknowledges her presence. The screen on his laptop is the records of the missing boys, details and pictures. “Both these kids are small. Underweight for their age.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“I’m thinking possible ADHD diagnoses for both boys.” Will says. “Ritalin, Focalin, any medication containing methylphenidate can affect appetite and slow long-term growth in kids.”

Alana agreed with his conclusion. That did make sense.

A beat as both co-workers inspect the two photos. She looks at him. Then --

“Another thing about Willard Wigan?” Beverly says, “He had a lonely childhood. He used his tiny sculptures as an escape.”

Will looks at her, completely baffled. “Who’s Willard Wigan?”

The exchange was the huff of a breath of levity. Alana felt the echo of exasperated fondness sweep through her for a split-second, before it was gone again. 

Beverly laughs, a low sound. Instead, she continues, “Price got a hit from the ballistics-matching program he’s been running on the two family murders. The bullet that put Mrs. Frist out of her misery matches three used in a murder in Bangor, Maine a year ago. Mother of a 13-year-old boy shot to death with her own gun.”

Will takes that in. “13-year-old milk carton material?”

 

***

 

An amber alert photo of C.J. Lincoln. The boy is dark-haired, thin.

Jack’s voice fills the space, “C.J. Lincoln disappeared six months before his mother’s murder and hasn’t been heard from since.”

“He has none of the characteristics of a sadist or a sociopath.” Will says.

No precursor to that behaviour nor history. It haunted Will sometimes, thinking of what it took to cross that line and how that adaptability meant doing anything to survive. The permanency of evolution meant that there was no going back after that.

Jack, Will, Zeller, Price and Katz are gathered around the monitor, studying the Amber Alert sheet of C.J. Lincoln. Jack agrees, “Right, no shoplifting, no malicious destruction of property, no assault and no battery. He was kind to animals for god’s sake.”

“But the firearm says we’re looking at Peter Pan to our Lost Boys.” Will points out.

Not Peter Pan. But the Wendy.

“It requires a sophisticated level of manipulation to convince boys to kill their families in cold blood.”

“Kindness to animals doesn’t suggest that particular kind of sophistication.”

Chilton eyed Will and thought bluntly, doesn’t it?

Jack says, “He’s older, he’s been out in the world. Maybe he picked up a few things.” 

 

***

 

C.J. Lincoln has a cold, dead-eyed stare as he walks through the midst of the convenience store. Over the aisle with bottled drinks, he looks directly at Chris while Eva pays the cashier. “There you go.” She says, and hands the bill over with a smile. 

Chris shrinks from the other boy’s gaze. His trousers darken as he wets it.

The boy’s fear was heartbreakingly palpable. 

After a moment, Eva realises. “Oh, honey.” She says, and then kneels down. “Are you feeling okay, honey? Do you have a fever?” She presses her face against his neck, then withdraws. “You don’t feel warm.”

“Here you go, ma’am.” The convenience store clerk says. 

The concern was real. The love should have been.

“Oh thank you.” Eva says profusely, as she pulls napkins off the counter. “He’s never done this before. I’ll pay for the napkins.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” The clerk says, in the background.

Eva starts to wipe the urine from the ground, sopping up the mess. “I’m so embarrassed.” She says, but then to Chris, she tells earnestly, “But you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Right?”

But how conditional it really was in the end.

He gives a shaky nod, and then his gaze drifts back to C.J. Lincoln who is still watching him like a hawk.

 

***

 

The door opens, revealing the therapist’s office on the other end. “Good evening, Will.” Hannibal greets, as the other man stands up and picks up his bag from where he had been sitting outside. “Please, come in.”

On screen, Will’s agitation was as clear as day, a fevered pitch compressed in his body language.

His gaze darts down to Will’s bag as he walks past. “Has Christmas come early?”

Will tosses his bag on the chair inside, and the side turns over to reveal a wrapped present sticking out from the outer pouch. 

Something in Alana’s expression loosened, as the silhouette of an understanding flashed in her eyes.

“Or late?” Hannibal finishes, as he shuts the door.

Will stares, then starts to take off his coat. “It was for Abigail.”

She had been right. Oh, Will.

“Was?”

“Thought better of it. Wasn’t thinking clearly. I was upset when I bought it. Maybe still am.” Will admits.

It insinuated to a curious contradiction - the crutch of bearing presents in moments of tumult. 

Or perhaps, Bedelia thought knowingly, it was better gifts than teeth.

“What is it?” Hannibal reaches for the present, but doesn’t take it out.

Will picks up the letter opener from Hannibal’s desk and fiddles with it. “Magnifying glass. Fly tying gear.” 

“Teaching her how to fish.” Hannibal took a seat, posture relaxed as he leant back. “Her father taught her how to hunt.”

Hannibal, Alana thought incredulously, could be the furthest thing from subtle. 

The chairs had been moved tellingly closer together, presenting a sense of intimacy that strayed far beyond his set professional boundaries.

“That’s why I thought better of it.”

Hannibal’s gaze lowers. “Feeling paternal, Will?” He asks.

In the instance of that singular look, Alana captured the truth of another terrifying realisation - the root of that strange obsession that Hannibal harboured for Will. It was, in no small part, spurred on by physical attraction.

Will turns back to him challengingly. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He answers easily. “Our good friend Dr. Bloom has advised against taking too personal an interest in Abigail’s welfare. Tell me. Why are you so angry?”

Furiously, she thought, tell me, am I really the monster in this fairy tale, Hannibal?

“I’m angry about these boys. I’m angry because I know when I find them, I can’t help them.” Will says. “I can’t- I can’t give them back what they gave away.”

Oftentimes, there was no going back. Will was becoming increasingly acquainted with this in his present reality.

“Family.”

“Yeah.”

“We call them the Lost Boys.” Will says.

“Abigail is lost, too.” Hannibal says. “And perhaps it is our responsibility, yours and mine, to help her find her way.”

At the end of the day, Will knew he had orphaned her. She was lost to him now too.

 

***

 

The sky flickers over the external view of the psychiatric hospital. Inside, Abigail is flipping through a book, before she closes it with a thud. She’s sitting on the bed. “I don’t think I’m allowed to leave after I climbed the fence.”

Hannibal is sitting in a chair next to her. “I’ve made arrangements. You could say I’m one of your guardians.”

How convenient, Jack thought resentfully.

“Where are we going?” She asks.

“Home.” Hannibal answers, then clarifies. “My home. I thought you might enjoy it if I cooked for you. I’ll have you back before bedtime.”

Bedelia knew better. There were times where the lines between Hannibal’s manipulations and projections blurred, no matter how little he realised, and this was a painfully stark example. 

“Can I spend the night?” She tries. “I don’t like sleeping here. I have bad dreams."

“You have to sleep in your own bed.” 

“This isn’t my bed.”

(Make your own bed, lie in it.)

“Tell me about your bad dreams.”

Abigail glances down. “I had one where Marissa was sending me picture texts. Like crime scene photos. Of Nicholas Boyle, gutted.”

Abigail had never told her that. Alana hadn’t known.

“How you left him.”

“Even though she’s dead, I’m afraid Marissa’s gonna tell everyone I killed him and they’ll think I’m just like my dad.” Her gaze flickers to him, pale blue fireflies. “Sorry. I can’t really talk about this in group.”

“You don’t have that luxury, Abigail.”

She accepts that, and walks across the room to the open window. “I just have to get used to lying.”

It was exactly the opposite of what Alana had worked for. The necessity to lie was still a bid for survival, for knowing that the danger had not passed even after the dust had settled, because in the end, Abigail had been delivered from the hands of one killer to another. 

Yet she herself, one of them.

Hannibal joins her. “You must only lie about one thing. And when you’re with me, you don’t have to lie about anything.”

Like recognises like. 

Abigail shrugs on her coat. “In the dream, I wonder how I could live with myself knowing what I did.”

“And when you’re awake?” He asks.

“And when I’m awake, I know I can live with myself. I know I will just get used to what I did.”

Will understood this about himself as well. 

At the door, she asks, “Does that make me a sociopath?”

“No. It makes you a survivor.”

In Hannibal’s mind, there were only porcelain shards and cracks kissed golden in the sun. A comfort.

The door pulls shut firmly behind them.

Notes:

Anyway I blinked, and a whole year went by 😭

Buckle in for the long haul, because 50k words later and it's still on episode 4?? Thank you all for sticking by though, hope you enjoy! Feel free to drop a comment, each and every one is greatly treasured <3

Chapter 18: End of Oeuf

Hours pass, the light of day flickering golden and late into the evening over the imposing front view of Hannibal’s house.

A close-up of  mushrooms bound like a flower in a crystal glass is lifted up as piping hot water is poured in. Each blossoms and opens up. The upside down view is tilted to show the dark steeped tea, condensation thick against the pot.

The artistic flair to the act did not stop Will from feeling the phantom brush of mycelium grasping him, damp soil thick in his throat. But he’d lost the rot marinating in his mouth. His mind clicked the connection, and the disbelief overpowered the rest, the drifting tinge of caustic laughter that verged on genuine.

“Well,” Will said, to the Mona Lisa smile shared with Hannibal. “I don’t think you’ve ever offered me that.”

Another shot of prepped ingredients - garlic cloves, thyme, ready to be cooked. Hannibal’s hands are seen, carving away the potato skin. “It’s important to know when it’s time to turn the page.” He says. “Have you thought about applying for schools?”

Abigail replies, “My dad killed girls at all the schools I applied to.”

The blunt delivery of that stagnated in the room.

Hannibal shares a glance with her. “Perhaps that can wait then.”

She says, “I want to work for the FBI.”

Jack startled at that, visibly surprised.

He was not prone to imagination, but he did wonder. In another time, another life… perhaps he could have seen her amidst the eager and sharp-eyed students during lectures. Clever and bright, like Miriam had been. Invaluable to the halls of the FBI.

But his thoughts were soured by the note of guilt, that chord of anger and fear striking the hammer.

He regards her, amused. “I would certainly feel safer if you were in the FBI protecting my interests.”

Of course you would, Alana thought piercingly.

“They wouldn’t let me though, would they?” She blinks rapidly, looks down. “Because of what my dad did.”

“Only if they believe that it’s in your nature too.”

“Nature versus nurture.”

But nothing was more dangerous than something cornered.

He turns to her for a moment. “You’re not your father’s daughter. Not anymore.” 

Yet another echo of disavowment. 

Will clenched his hands to hide the tremor.

Abigail goes quiet.

Hannibal continues, “What if it weren’t so painful anymore? To think of him.”

She shakes her head, confused. “My dad?”

“Yes.” He lets his proposition hang in the air, acclimatizing its weight. “Have you ever taken psilocybin?”

There was a moment where Alana’s jaw cramped from how hard she clenched it. She was beginning to put the pieces together from her own memories of what had occurred at that time. 

A dinner table set, the cocooning of Hannibal’s yearning overpowering the ghosts of the dead Hobbs parents. Abigail, dream-like and hazy, with a child-like smile stretched from ear to ear. Alana herself, soothed by false assumptions, and played a fool.

“Mushrooms? That’s what in the tea?”

He goes to tend to the tea. “There are those psychiatrists who believe altered states could be used to access traumatic memories.”

There seemed to be no shortage of that, Zeller thought grimly.

“I have all the access to traumatic memories I need.” Abigail points out, crossing her arms. “Unlimited access.”

He picks up the pot. “Which is why we need to supplement them with positive associations. No more bad dreams, Abigail.”

She watches him pour the tea into a porcelain cup, and says dryly, “You want me to do drugs?”

“Oh my god.” Jimmy said, suddenly flashing back to what he had said while watching the earlier mushroom case. Look, it had been largely a joke but Hannibal Lecter, aka the Chesapeake Ripper, Copycat Killer, M.D, etc, etc apparently took the whole thing to heart. With gravitas. 

Seriously. Mushrooms. 

Did drugs actually constitute as therapy? He kind of suspected he was getting a rather skewed perspective here. 

“I want you to do this drug. With my supervision. Where it’s safe.” He offers her the cup. “Do you trust me?”

She inhales visibly, and then accepts. She brings it to her lips and drinks.

(Oh, Alice)

 

***

 

A slow pan of the case board, starting on the photograph of C.J. Lincoln strung to a map. Jack reads the locations out loud, down the red highlight following the coast line. “Bangor, Maine. Stamford, Connecticut. And recently, Reston, Virginia.” 

He’s sitting near the map, with Price, Zeller, Katz and Will spread across the room.

Jack remembered this. It was around the time the pressure of the case was starting to get to him, his mind crumbling for any sort of connection to tie the killings together. There was always a pattern. The tricky part was in finding it.

“That places each of the murders approximately five hundred miles from the one before it.” Jimmy adds, earning a nod.

“That’s right.” Jack says.

“You’re trying to establish a geographical pattern when the murders were weeks apart.” Zeller argues.

Ever the devil’s advocate.

“Other patterns too.” Will says distantly, his back to the wall and his gaze unfocused. He counts each point off his fingers. “Our shooters are minors. Middle children from traditional affluent families.”

Jack’s voice floats over him. Beverly lingers on Will, concerned. “We know they’re moving south so that means we want to cover the border of North Carolina and Georgia. We need to get files on every missing boy within North Carolina.” He walks to the board.

“There’s a pattern.” Will says. “Less to do with geography and more with psychology.”

There was a reason that Jack pushed so hard to bring Will into the fold. His insights, the way his mind worked… it was different. And that was exactly the sort of perspective Jack needed. He was of firm conviction that nightmares beneath the pillow paled in comparison to the lives they saved. 

Well, until the moment the bodies dropped and he thought, he’d believed, Will had been the one to put it there. 

“What kind of kid does this?” Jack prompts.

“And what kind of kid follows a kid who does this?”

“There’s no kind of indication these kids came from abusive families.” Jack says. 

“No, no no.” Will answers quietly. He lifts his head. “Captor-bonding. A passive, psychological response to a new master. It’s been an essential survival tool for a million years. Bond with your captor, you survive. You don’t, you’re breakfast.”

It was just- the way he’d said it. It stuck.

Beverly hadn’t been able to shake the memory for a while. His voice was rock-steady, resigned, and just a touch bit too knowing. Empathy put him in shoes that were not his own. It became like he lived it, with the killer’s knife in his hands, with victims’ wounds etched in his skin. 

And it felt like they’d stood by and watched. 

 

***

 

Cut to a frying pan on a stove - brioche, eggs and sausage arranged in a smiley face. Hannibal looks at Abigail, pleased. Her face has gone hazy.

Of course, Alana thought.

Of course, it had cut straight to Hannibal in the kitchen. Whatever was implied, was not subtle in the slightest.

Autumn trees rustle in a forest. Abigail and her father are hunting. The rifle is in her hands as she looks through the scope, her face tight in concentration. Her gloved finger curls over the trigger. A deer turns its head on the other end. There is a sharp bang.

Abigail is back in the kitchen.

With a chill, Alana realized they’d gone right back into Abigail’s head. Into that forest and her world of dead deer and dead girls and butchered meat. Under the influence of psilocybin, and the barriers that Abigail built between herself and every traumatic memory was becoming loosened and undone. 

Then another flashback. “Just like we talked about.” Garrett Jacob Hobbs says. She holds the carving knife, her hands running possessively through the fur of the dead deer. The sound of a deep stab. She’s in the cabin, her eyes wide in shock as the knife sinks into Nicholas Boyle. 

Past and present, memory and nightmare intermingled like blood in raindrops.

The kitchen again. The cup slips from Abigail’s hand, a splash of pale porcelain against the inky kitchen floor. There is a crash as the china splits apart into pieces. 

Bone white shards against the kitchen floor, a porcelain splash.

Hannibal thought of the irreversibility of time, of consequence. Then of the beauty of kintsugi.

Her hands are raised, confusedly. Suddenly she asks, her voice pitched funny, “Doctor Bloom said this was okay?”

Surprise flashed in Alana’s eyes, hearing the unspoken grasp for reassurance in Abigail’s voice. It sat like a knife in her empty gut. 

Hannibal walks out from behind the kitchen island. “Not at all. We often have a difference of opinion.”

There is the sound of tinkling shards as she stares down into a distorted fruit bowl. She picks up an orange and studies it intently. “More secrets for us.”

Will caught himself. Because there was an insurmountable depth to those words. A truth, ringing like a struck dinner bell. After all, he was just as complicit. Hannibal had succeeded in seeing to that.

Hannibal is crouched, picking up the broken pieces. “You and I will have many secrets.”

By now, Bedelia had learnt this more intimately than most. 

Abigail sinks onto a nearby armchair. The orange is still in her hands, foggy to sight.

“Infusing psilocybin into the bloodstream before psychotherapy can elicit a positive, even spiritual experience for patients.” He explains after a while. 

The lines of reality often blurred with Hannibal, but Will experienced clarity through the whisper of his subconscious. He grimaced and tried not to dwell too long on that. 

She puts down the orange and looks up to find Hannibal walking towards her. “Psychological trauma is an affliction of the powerless.” He says. “I want to give you your power back.”

Her eyebrows strain together. “I don’t feel so good.”

He kneels down so that he’s at her eye level. “That feeling will pass.” He says in reassurance. He tucks a palm against the side of her face and then cradles with both hands. Grounding her to the present. “Allow it to wash over you. Through you. Let me be your guide.”

More the whims of a sculptor. Deft hands shaping clay, in his image. In his vision of an ideal.

Abigail’s gaze slides to the side, a frown. “You’re making breakfast for dinner?”

Hannibal’s expression splits into a smile. He stands up and goes back to tend to the food, and she follows. “High Life eggs. A chef in Spain called Muro claims he invented it in the 19th century.” He throws a potato into the air and catches it on the edge of a knife. A small chuckle as he holds it up for show. “Taste is not only biochemical, it’s also psychological.”

Alana knew what he was doing, in his evocation of memory. He was steering her to create new associations from the old, in a displacement of the past. It was eerie how similar it all seemed to the Lost Boys case. 

Abigail looks at the frying pan. The sausage sizzling and crackling, below the brioche and eggs. Nearly done. 

“Eggs and sausage was the last meal I was having with my parents.”

“I know. It’s also the first meal you’re having with me.”

A covenant, with a belly full of meat.

Her face cracks into a smile.

 

***

 

Will, Beverly and Alana are at a conference table, the many discarded file folders of missing or abducted kids spread out across the surface.

“Without the interference of a leader, these kids would never consider violent action.” Alana says. She’s holding a paper with the amber alert of one of the missing children - Ryan T. Palmer. 

Ink spots and unlit fuses. It took a catalyst to bring it gurgling to the surface.

“Our missing kid’s a boy.” Will says. He clears his throat. “A paradox in the midst of a normal family. He’s an outsider who doesn’t look like one. He’d have a vocation.” At that, he starts to leaf through the files, discarding the ones that don’t fit the profile. “Something inventive or mechanical.”

Alana’s sideways glance in that scene spoke volumes. Will knew what she was thinking, but was gracious enough not to say aloud.

She does not tell him, you would have been the perfect candidate.

Will does not agree, bittersweet, I would have.

“Here’s one.” Beverly holds up a file and starts reading. “Family moved from Biloxi, to Charleston to Fayetteville in the last three years. He won a Junior High award for his work on pretty sophisticated computer circuitry.” She hands it over to Will.

“Why do you think these kids are susceptible to C.J. Lincoln?” Alana asks.

“Because our boy may have a brother, but their ages or interests keep them apart.” Will answers. “So a brother without a brother.”

A slow nod from Alana. “Brothers looking for a mother.”

The simplicity of that was as striking and devastating as a bullet.

“They’re killing the mothers last.” Alana adds, the final nail in the coffin.

 

***

 

Will enters the office, knocking twice as he passes the threshold. 

Jack looks up from his computer. “Yeah?”

“It’s not just C.J. Lincoln. There’s an adult with some formative sway. It’s a woman. A mother figure. I think,” Will takes a breath, “She’s looking to form a family.”

It was with that, the last pieces of the case had clicked into place.

Jack takes that in. “Family can have a contagion effect on some people. Influences them to adopt similar behaviors and attitudes.”

And it seemed that in the occassional case, Bedelia thought critically, that was enough of a motivator for that… balm for loneliness. When it came to Hannibal, it was a curiously mundane affliction.

“Whoever this woman is,” Will gets closer, his breath unsteady, “She wants these children to burst with love for her. But she has to erase their families to do that.”

Jack summarizes it succinctly. “So she abducts them, convinces them no one can love them as much as she does and then makes damn sure of it.”

Heaviness crawled inside of Beverly, as thick as a weighted sigh. God, those poor children. The scope of it was horrifying. 

“Security camera from a convenience store in Alexandria, Virginia caught footage of Chris O’Halloran this morning.” Will passes Jack the folder. “He was with an unidentified woman.”

“Where’s this kid’s parents?”

“Fayetteville, North Carolina.”

 

***

 

Chris stands alone on the doorstep of his family’s home. He peers through the glass window and then rings the doorbell. Footsteps approach as he makes a round on the porch, turning back in time as the door opens and Chris’s mother lays eyes on him. “Christopher.” She breathes in disbelief. There is a moment of true joy and elation as she throws her arms around him, crouching to embrace her child.

Will’s eyes flickered shut, squeezing with the fist around his heart, still smarting with childish yearning. 

“Oh my god.” She says tearfully. “Chris…”

His eyes are blank.

 

***

 

It cuts to the front view of the house - elegant and unassuming. A procession of police cars round the corner and pull up to the driveway, as armed SWAT members swarm toward the house. A ram breaks down the front door and the team sweeps through the house, guns drawn and at the low ready. The various rooms covered are empty. Jack is armed and bringing up the rear, along with the rest of his team.

The backyard. The O’Hallorans were in the process of a barbeque lunch. The mother, father, and two children are backed up and defensive as the lost boys stand opposite, holding a gun on them. “No, no, no no!” Marcy O’Halloran cries out.

The cavalry arrived in the nick of time. Jack watched the intervention be carried out, that family’s salvation in that swarm of dark-clad agents. 

A fired shot from one of the SWAT members. The bullet strikes C.J. Lincoln, sending him stumbling. 

That split second is enough for enforcement to move in, barking orders to get down on the ground. Chris O’Halloran bolts away. He bursts through the side gate, and Will follows in pursuit behind him.

All Will could recall was that it had all happened so heart-poundingly fast.

They end up near a pool in the backyard. “Chris, wait-”

The boy turns and pulls a gun on Will. He responds in turn. 

“Don’t shoot.” He says, and holds up a hand to stop the SWAT member that has followed him and similarly has the boy in scope. “It’s okay.” Will raises both hands. “You’re home now. Put the gun down. Christopher.” 

The details of the arrests had eluded Alana the first time around. She watched, her pulse racing slightly, as Will tried to talk the boy down. 

A woman emerges from the door behind. Eva puts her arms around the boy, the gun loosely angled downwards over his chest as she says, “Shoot him, Christopher.”

Chris’s hands are shaking.

Will slowly sets the gun down, dropping down in surrender. “Christopher.” Never taking his attention off the boy, he says softly. “Please.”

(A plea, a promise. A choice.)

Through the foliage, Beverly fires. The shot hits Eva in the shoulder. She crumples backward.

Beverly straightened, steady and steely as ever.

Will flinches for a moment, before he realizes what has happened.

Beverly moves in and guides Chris away, his hands limp at his side and unresisting and he goes along. Will crosses to stare down at Eva, fallen on the ground, taking sharp breaths as she tenses through the pain. There is a pool of blood behind her. 

And then it was over, just like that.

 

***

 

Chris sits at the back of the police car. Jack enters the front seat and then closes the door. He turns his body to regard the boy.

When it had happened, Jack was saddled with a tangle of emotions. He picked it apart for days afterwards.

“Can I go home now?” Chris asks thickly.

“I don’t think you’re going to go home for a long time.” Jack says. “You came here to kill your family. That’s all anybody knows. It may be all that anybody believes.”

The world played judge and juror, and ever so often, executer. That was just how it was, for the longest time.

“I wasn’t going to do it.”

“Well, you’re going to have to talk to a lot of people about it. Those people are going to try and help you understand what you were really trying to do.”

Jack had tried for a balance between pragmatic and optimistic. It was a difficult juggling act, given the fact he was talking to a conditioned child who’d nearly murdered his entire family. 

“She told me,” Chris’s gaze slips away. “That they weren’t my family. That we had to make our own family.” He looks at Jack challengingly. “Do you have a family?”

“I don’t have any children, no.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like.” Chris says with finality. There is a silence, and then at last, “Can I talk to my mom? My real mom?”

It had given Jack hope, that the boy was willing to refer to his mother once again. Convinced him that perhaps, there was a chance after all.

Jack nods, acquiescing. “In a little while. But first I need you to talk to me.”

 

***

 

Back to Hannibal’s home. Alana’s sharp voice is crisp with anger. “As someone who makes such a big deal about common courtesy, I’m a little taken aback - slash, a lot taken aback - that you would take my patient, my patient, out of the hospital without my permission.”

Alana appreciated her own actions at that time more than ever. There was a time where she knew where she stood with her once-mentor, and no matter how doctored she now realized his appearance was, she had a feeling that there were more than a few behavioral ticks to slip the cracks. He was chastened but unrepentant. And she’d known that even at the time.

Hannibal is visibly schooled. He nods in agreement to her words, appropriately ashamed.

She goes quieter. “I’m not a professional scold. But don’t put me in this position ever again.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her heels click to a stop. “Rude, Hannibal. Shockingly rude.”

There was a thrill of pleasure to be derived from that, watching her patient be distinctly wrong-footed. Bedelia watched in satisfaction. 

“You have every right to be upset with me. I overstepped my bounds.” He offers.

“Where is she?” Alana asks.

“She’s in the dining room.”

She moves toward the dining room. 

“And Alana?” Hannibal says. “You were right.”

It was a meagre concession.

“Often am. Have to be more specific.” 

“She wasn’t ready to leave the hospital room. She experienced a bit of anxiety so I gave her a sedative.” He admits.

Will’s eyebrows raised, directing a pointed look to Hannibal. 

In disbelief, “A sedative? What did you give her?”

“I only gave her half a valium but she may be a little hazy.”

Hannibal and Alana enter to find Abigail sitting at the dimly lit table. “Hi, Doctor Bloom.” 

Will saw it immediately. That dinner set for three. 

“Hello, Abigail.” Alana glances down to see the third place setting. She turns to Hannibal.  “You were expecting me?”

In a show of courtesy, he pulls out the chair for her. “Please.” 

Alana realized he hadn’t actually answered her question.

“Are you hungry?” Abigail asks, smiling. “Hannibal made breakfast for dinner.”

Alana caves. “I could eat.”

Hannibal pours the juice into the glass for Alana. To Abigail, he asks, “What is it? What do you see?”

Her face grows into a wider grin, even as he prompts her name again. Her vision blurs and loses focus before refraining clarity. It is now Louise and Garret Jacob Hobbs sitting opposite her. 

A perfect tableau of the family she had lost. 

“What do you see?” 

Abigail says, “I see family."

Hannibal smiles at Alana, who is more thoughtful now. 

“And you call me unethical.” Chilton said. 

 

***

 

Jack lies in bed by himself, reading. He looks up. “Hello.”

Bella Crawford enters and joins him in bed. She adjusts the pillows. 

Jack’s breath hitched. There was a flash of fury over watching his wife and personal life be picked apart by the vulture of whatever the hell omnipresent camera lens this was. 

Jack takes off his reading glasses, his gaze off in the middle-distance. “Think it’s too late for us to have kids?”

Jimmy choked on his next breath and was sent into a coughing fit. Given what had just happened in the case, well, it just seemed like extremely unfortunate timing.

Jack's glare sent him ducking back.

She pauses briefly, gives him a look and then curls on her side of the bed, back to Jack. “It is for me.” She says at last, and her eyes are wet with emotion. She stretches a hand and turns off the light on the nightstand. Jack’s side of the bed in light, hers in the dark. After a while, he does the same. Plunging the screen into darkness.

Now he was afforded a close-up view of the full extent of her grief.

Oh Bella, Jack thought, anguished.

 

***

 

Lights flicker and go out as time lapses in front of Will’s house. The camera pulls back over the living room, the pack of dogs curled up and happy in their beds in front of the heater. 

This was closest thing to family Will had made. Companionship with his beloved pack of strays.

Will lying in bed, watching over them. The closest thing to peace settles as he closes his eyes.

Notes:

Just wrapped up an insanely busy semester, so hopefully updates should be smoother sailing from here on out. Thank you all for being patient and sticking by this, hope you enjoy!!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Movie Remedy For The Weary